Instinct
by LindaO
Summary: Survival instinct. Some people have it in spades. Will Ingram, Finch's sorta-nephew, doesn't have it at all. But his new girlfriend has enough for both of them. Unfortunately, she's not who he thinks she is. And her Number just came up. Can Finch and Reese save and life and a romance - and figure out why the girl won't stop stalking Will? Season 1, before "Firewall"
1. Chapter 1

Survival instinct. Some people have it in spades. Will Ingram doesn't have it at all. But his new girlfriend has enough for both of them. Unfortunately, she's not who he thinks she is. And her Number just came up. If Finch and Reese are going to save a life – and a budding romance – they'll have to find out who she is, who wants her dead, and why, even after she brutally dumped him, she won't stop following Will all over the city.

Season 1, before Firewall. Language, violence.

* * *

To live is like to love - all reason is against it, and all healthy instinct for it.  
Samuel Butler

* * *

Harold Finch stood up and stretched carefully. He'd been sitting still for much too long; his neck and back were stiff, painful. It had been a long time since he'd spent a whole morning at this particular desk. He realized that he'd been expecting the phone to ring and call him away. He glanced at the large stack of papers he'd finished going through with some satisfaction. Then he moved to one of the windows – two whole walls of the office were made of windows – and looked down at the city. The view was satisfying, as well.

He'd needed a quiet day. So had Reese. He hoped John had taken the chance to get some rest.

He thought idly about lunch. He wasn't really hungry yet, but he should make plans, maybe reservations. Not Italian. Not Indian. Something lighter; it had been a low-activity day so far…

Predictably, the moment he began to make plans, his phone rang.

He checked the incoming number, then answered it with just the right annoyed briskness in his voice. "Harold Wren."

"Mr. Wren," a strong male voice said, "this is Robert Berry. Skydd International Security."

Harold felt cold all over, like he'd been suddenly splashed with ice water. "Mr. Berry," he said carefully. "How can I help you?"

"Mr. Wren, I'm very sorry to have to tell you this. There's an issue with Dr. Ingram's security detail."

Not splashed, Harold decided. _Dunked_ in ice water and sinking fast. _Not Will. I can't lose Will, too._ "An issue. What sort of issue?"

"We've lost contact with the detail. We're doing everything we can to re-establish surveillance on the subject. We have a back-up team on the way. But at the moment … you wanted to be informed of any change in status."

For a moment Harold simply held his breath. He was convinced, somehow, that if he inhaled he would drown.

"Mr. Wren?"

"Yes." Harold shook his head, made himself inhale and exhale. "How soon do you expect an update?"

"Within the hour."

"Please keep me informed. I'll keep this line open."

"Yes, sir."

Harold thumbed off the phone and gripped the back of his chair. It kept him upright. _Not Will_, he thought again. _I can't lose Will. _The ice in his veins began to transition to rage. Skydd was the most expensive private security firm in the world, and presumably the best. It damn well ought to be the best; they put a huge amount of their revenues back into training and equipment. He knew, because he owned 60% of the stock. Their elite team should have been able to protect one young man without losing track of him. What the hell kind of …

Ice again. If management couldn't contact their very professional operatives, it might well mean that the men were dead, and the only reason for that would be because Will was …

He reached for his phone again. Hesitated. Will was half-way around the world. There was not a damn thing John Reese could do for him. He was good, but he wasn't _that_ good. Finch took a deep breath. He was being hysterical. He had to get his emotions under control. Think, he told himself firmly. You don't even know that Will is in any danger …

He hit the speed dial anyhow.

"Finch," Reese answered after the first ring. He sounded relaxed, a little sleepy.

"Mr. Reese, I …"

There was a firm, polite knock on his office door.

"Oh, God," Harold breathed. He stood up, opened a drawer, dropped the phone in, left it open. "Come in," he called as firmly as he could.

His assistant opened the door. She looked anxious. "Mr. Wren, there are some gentlemen here to see you. They say it's very important …"

Harold nodded. "Please."

She retreated, and two men came in. They were in suits, clean-shaven, middle aged. Very serious. They were there to tell him that Will Ingram was dead. He was absolutely certain of that.

He tried to swallow; his mouth was too dry. "Gentlemen?" His voice sounded thin, scared. He glanced down at the phone. Reese could hear him, hear everything. It was a spider-thin thread of comfort.

"Mr. Wren," the slightly taller man said. "My name is Brian Ware. I'm with the State Department. This is Kevin Serra."

Harold gestured to the guest chairs. "Please, sit down." They did, and he dropped into his own chair. He knew. He felt sick and so very cold. He didn't want to know, but he knew. "How can I help you?"

They shared a look. "Mr. Wren, you're, uh, you're listed as next of kin for Dr. William Ingram?"

"Yes." He clenched his hands in his lap until the nails drew blood on his palms. He should explain that he was not really Will's uncle. He should ask why they were there, as if he didn't know. He should … he couldn't. He just waited.

"There's been an … incident," Serra said. "Dr. Ingram has been kidnapped."

Harold took a deep breath. Kidnapped was a relief. Kidnapped was bad, but it better than dead. "Kidnapped?" he repeated, trying to keep the glee out of his voice. He sounded a little giddy, but that could pass as stunned.

"In Mali. This may be the work of Islamists, but it's more likely that it's a local faction, a gang. That this was done purely for profit."

"When?"

"About two hours ago. Dr. Ingram and another aid worker were taken on the main road."

Harold stirred, glanced down at the phone again. Half-way around the world, but there might be time, Reese might be able to get to him. "If this is a question of ransom …"

Both men shook their heads. "We don't pay ransoms," Ware said firmly. "We find that it rarely resolves the situation in a positive manner."

"Then what …"

"We're only here to advise you of the situation," Serra continued. They exchanged another look. "We have a team in place. A rescue operation is being carried out."

Finch blinked at him. "What … _now_?"

"Yes."

Harold didn't know how to respond. He didn't know what to feel. Right now, half-way around the world. No chance for Reese to intervene. Will's life was in the hands of strangers, and he was helpless.

But they were trying to rescue him. Right _now_.

"That's very … quick."

"Mr. Wren," Ware said, "were you aware that Dr. Ingram was under the protection of a private security detail?"

Harold nodded. "Yes. His father set it up initially. I maintain it now. Will – Dr. Ingram, doesn't know. He's quite … independent. Stubbornly so."

They both nodded again. "The men on the detail disappeared shortly before the attack."

"Disappeared?"

"We're trying to locate them. But their absence was what alerted our people to the increased danger. That allowed us to get a team in place. Unfortunately we weren't able to prevent the kidnapping."

Harold looked toward the windows. The view was no longer satisfactory. He hated being helpless more than anything. Will's security people had disappeared. Either they'd been bought off or they were dead. Most likely they were dead. He felt a moment of grief, regret, for men he didn't know. But Will was still alive. Still in danger. His concern focused back on the young man. "When … when will we know?"

"Hopefully within the hour."

An hour. It might as well be an eternity. "I see." He nodded, trying to think. What do people do, while they wait to learn if someone they cannot bear to lose has been lost? How do they wait to hear if the nearest thing they will ever have to a son has died a violent death half a world away? Human interaction. He didn't do human interaction. He glanced at the phone again. "Can I … that is … would you like some coffee?"

He didn't wait to see if they nodded. He palmed the phone out of the drawer, walked to the door and opened it. "Ms. Lowe, would you get these gentlemen some coffee, please?"

"Of course, Mr. Wren." She still looked concerned, rattled by the badges they'd no doubt shown her, but she was wonderfully efficient, as always. "Would you like some more tea?"

"I … no." He put his hand to his mouth. "No, thank you." He glanced at the men, who were watching him. "Excuse me," he mumbled. He pressed his hand to his mouth again and hurried across the office to his washroom. He closed the door behind him and leaned against it. The room was dim and blessedly cool.

Finch turned on the tap and ran water in the sink. Then he put the phone to his ear. "John?" he said quietly.

"I'm here, Harold. Tell me what you need."

"I need to know that Will Ingram is safe." His voice cracked, and he fought to get it under control. "I don't know what I should do."

"You're doing what you're doing," Reese said firmly. "Give the suits some coffee and wait for news."

"I can't just wait. I can't."

"Do you have satellite surveillance set up on him?"

"Yes." It was ethically questionable, he knew, to have hacked national security satellites for the sole purpose of keeping watch over his wayward nephew. He didn't care.

"I'm almost to the library. I'll need the password."

Finch hesitated. If he gave him the password Reese would need to get to the satellite feed, he could access so many other things. So many secrets. It hurt, badly …

Not as badly as losing Will would.

But even if he had the password, Reese could do no more than watch. It was all happening so far away, beyond even his significant powers to intervene.

"Finch," Reese said, "you change the password every day anyhow." He sounded annoyed, impatient. Stung.

"Of course," Finch relented. He keyed the password into the phone and hit send. "Please …"

"I'll let you know what I see." His voice lost its edge. "He's a very high-value target, Harold. Try to …" he stopped. "Have a little faith."

Harold closed his eyes. "I have a little." He slipped his earwig in, dropped the phone into his pocket. "So very little." He splashed a little water on his face, dried it off, turned off the tap. Went back to the men waiting at his desk. "I'm sorry," he said. He took his glasses off, wiped a small droplet of water off with his thumb. "No word?"

"Not yet."

Ms. Lowe came in with the coffee tray. The coffee pot was silver, the cups real china. She'd brought tea for him, too, though he'd asked her not to. He took the cup between his hands, grateful for its warmth. He did not drink it. He was afraid he'd vomit for real.

The men fixed coffee for themselves and settled back uneasily. Serra glanced at his watch. After a moment, Ware brought his phone out, checked it, set it on the edge of the desk.

"This must be a terrible job," Finch said quietly.

"Sometimes," Serra agreed.

"Mr. Wren, please understand," Ware added. "We're doing everything in our power to get your nephew back safely."

"I know," Finch answered. His hands began to tremble and he had to take them away from the comfort of the warm cup before he spilled the tea. He dropped them into his lap, out of sight. "I know."

* * *

**1982**

Harold stared through the glass at the fifteen bassinettes inside the newborn nursery. They all looked alike to him. Except for the pink and blue blankets and some statistically insignificant variation in size, they were identical. Small, red-faced, eyes stubbornly closed. Not one of the babies looked happy to have arrived in the world. Honestly, he didn't blame them.

He felt Nathan at his shoulder and shifted his gaze to the plastic bin that had 'Ingram' written on the name tag. The infant within was absolutely unremarkable, as far as he could see, except for faint blue bruises on each side of his face, in the shape of the forceps that had saved his just-started life.

"He's gorgeous, isn't he?" Nathan said quietly.

Harold simply nodded. It seemed more polite than an outright lie.

"The nurse said she'd never seen a more perfect newborn."

"Hmmm." Of course she had, Harold thought. That was her job. He looked over at Nathan. "How are _you_?"

"I'm exhausted," Ingram admitted. He looked it. "Longest damn night of my life." He shook his head. "I never thought it would be so …" Then he stopped, squared his shoulders. "But they're okay. Both of them, they're okay."

Harold nodded and looked back toward the infant. Nathan would never sneak into the nurses' station and read the whole chart, the way he had, so Nathan would never know how fearfully close he'd come to losing both of them. He would never need to; it didn't matter now. As he'd said, they were both, against all odds, safe.

"What will you name him?" he asked.

Nathan's reflection grinned at him in the window. "We haven't decided yet. But I'm really pushing for Harold."

Harold smiled back, startled but pleased. "Please don't do that," he said earnestly. "I'm flattered – honored, really, but … it's been an awful name for my generation. It would be absolutely dreadful in his."

Besides, he thought, your wife hates me. If you name your son after me, she'll remember that every time she looks at him. The boy's had a rough enough beginning. He doesn't need that, too.

If Nathan knew how much unspoken animosity simmered between his best friend and his wife, he pretended not to. But he accepted Harold's recommendation without argument. "What would you name him, then?"

Harold considered. "Something conventional. Classic. Something that sounds like the name of a rich man's son."

Ingram chuckled. "We're not rich men yet, Harold."

"We will be," he promised. He half-turned, reached up a bit to put his hand on his friend's shoulder. "Believe me. Your child will have everything he needs in the world. And everything he wants."

Nathan's blue eyes considered, nodded. "Thank you. I need that reassurance right now. I can't believe I have a … I have a _son_, Harold. I never thought I'd … I thought at this point in my life I'd still be … I don't know, chasing girls and drinking too much beer and …" He shook his head. "I have a _son_."

At that moment he looked very young to Harold. He was right, he _should_ be chasing girls and drinking too much beer. Enjoying his summer and looking forward to girls and beer at graduate school. Irresponsible, carefree, with nothing more to worry about than whether there was gas in the car. Instead he was newly married and had a brand new son. He was hopelessly mired in domestic bliss. Well, mired in domestic _something_, anyhow.

He was also exhausted and anxious. Scared. The full weight of the responsibility was settling on Nathan's shoulders. A wife and a son. A baby.

The grandmotherly nurse inside the nursery finally noticed the two young men. She ambled over and pushed the bassinet closer to the window, so that they could look directly down on the blue-blanketed bundle that was Nathan Ingram's son. The infant had a little shock of hair on his head, light brown, which stood straight up. His nose looked mashed, and he had dark circles under his eyes.

This close, the bruises from the forceps looked brutal.

Harold looked away, at his friend again.

The expression on Nathan's face took him by surprise. His mouth was tight, but his chin quivered. His eyes were suspiciously bright. The shoulder under Harold's hand began to shake. "Poor boy," he murmured, very softly. "My poor boy."

He was enraptured, Harold realized. His friend was completely and utterly smitten with that little creature. He was in love with the boy. And for the first time, Harold believed in the concept of love at first sight.

He considered the sleeping baby again. "William," he pronounced softly.

Nathan blinked. "As in Shakespeare?"

"Author of great romances," Harold confirmed. "If he has his mother's looks and his father's wealth, it will suit him perfectly."

Nathan chuckled. "Harold, you've gone poetic on me."

Harold laughed with him. "I'll try not to make a habit of it." He tapped the glass softly. The baby slept on, but the nurse gave him a warning glare and he lowered his hand. "Still, it's a good name."

"William," Ingram repeated. "Will, for short, I think. You're right. It's a good name." He nodded. "Thank you, Uncle Harold."

Harold looked at him. They were strange words, next to each other that way. But he could get to like them. Uncle Harold. And Will Ingram. They were good names, both of them.

It wasn't until much later, when it was too late to reconsider, that he remembered that the author of great romances had also been the author of great tragedies.

* * *

**2012**

Reese sat down at the computer, reached for the keyboard. Hesitated. Then he shook his head. He'd tried to guess Finch's passwords many times. Now that he had one, freely given, he had no reason not to use it. But it felt wrong.

He shrugged, input the password. The system came to life for him. He glanced at the many screens and displays. He passingly understood what about two-thirds of it did. Some of it he would never understand. And at least two screens, he was fairly sure, were games. The genius versions of 'Minesweeper'. Not that Harold would ever admit it.

'Freely given' was probably not the right term, he corrected. Under extreme duress was more accurate. Reese had learned everything he could about Will Ingram's background when the young man first appeared in Finch's life. But exactly how Will and Harold were connected was still a bit fuzzy. He knew that Will was the only son of Nathan Ingram, who had been Harold's partner and probably oldest friend. He knew the boy called him Uncle Harold, and that he was one of the few people that Finch suffered himself to be hugged by; there was clearly affection between the two. But the exact depth of the relationship had eluded him. Finch seemed to be willing to let the young man live his own life and make his own mistakes. He'd thrown his bail when Will had been arrested for a minor crime, but he hadn't stepped in beforehand, though he obviously could have.

The fact that Finch was so distressed now told Reese that he had probably underestimated the boy's significance to him. Will Ingram was important enough to give up his password for.

Reese studied the displays, finally found what he was after. That it was already running confirmed his new knowledge: Finch was clocking his Will Ingram 24/7. The kid was half-way around the world and his not-technically-uncle checked up on him at will.

John didn't want to think about how often Finch checked in on _him_. But then, he'd gotten used to the idea. Mostly.

Mali. He shook his head. What the hell was Ingram doing in Mali? Charity work, Doctors Without Borders, fine. But there were other places where doctors were needed, places that weren't a tinderbox of civil unrest. Places where bullets weren't flying on a daily basis, and where citizens weren't being stoned to death for religious offenses. Much safer places. The boy had been in Sudan, which had been somewhat better. But he seemed to have an affinity for the hot spots.

The State Department men had said Finch had a security team to following the boy. It probably paid extremely well. But Reese didn't envy them a bit. A rich kid like Will Ingram was likely to be a spoiled pain in the ass to protect.

What had happened to them?

He pulled the joystick over to him and scrolled around the view of the city. The men in Finch's —Wren's— office hadn't said that the kidnappers were still in the city, but it seemed likely. If they were correct that it was a local gang, they wouldn't have ventured outside their safe zone. The fact that the rescue mission was already in place also meant that they hadn't traveled far.

Over his earwig, he could hear the silence in Harold's office. The occasional clink of china cups. Very distant phones and voices, outside the closed door. Every so often he caught Finch's ragged breathing. He was trying to stay calm.

Reese paused. He was doing this this hard way. He released the joystick and hit the reset button. His satellite view snapped back to what the government was watching over the city; he was suddenly looking straight down over a building at the fringes of the city. Zoomed in. The State guys were telling the truth. The operation was already under way.

"I've got eyes on them," Reese said quietly. He heard Finch sigh very softly.

He studied the view for a moment. On a hunch, he clicked a control button. Tactical data came up to the left of the screen. Finch was fully embedded in the system; Reese could see exactly what the operators could see. He glanced over the data. It was a CIA team, not military. Covert, in theory; the US government could deny any involvement if things went completely south. But they didn't seem particularly interested in remaining covert. They were going hard.

Something seemed wrong. The weaponry wasn't quite right. The personnel …

Finch said, "I wish I could see what they're seeing right now." There was movement; he'd probably moved away from his desk.

"I'm sure we'll have news soon," one of his guests told him.

Reese looked back to the satellite view. "They're in a building at the edge of the city," he said. "It looks like there are multiple floors. The hostages are at the center of the building, probably on the top floor." All he could see was the heat signature, of course, but the two of them were in very close proximity and unmoving in the center of the room, so it was a safe assumption. There was one other signature in the room, pacing. Guarding them. "They're alive," he added.

There were eight other signatures in the building. Two were at the corners, northeast and southwest. The others were clustered around the front of the building, all together. "They have two look-outs posted, but the rest of them are not set in yet. They're not ready to defend themselves."

They weren't going to get a chance to get ready, either, Reese thought. Outside the building, the team was set. Five men covered the exits and the perimeter. One more moving at the side of the building. They were backed up by two snipers on opposite sides of the building. Well-armed and well-organized. He leaned forward. They would need to get that guard with the hostages first. He needed to get word to them, to tell them … then he shook his head. They were looking at exactly the same satellite view he was. They were perfectly aware of that issue.

He knew the men on this strike team. Not these particular men, but men just like them. He'd been one of them. They were trained, professional, determined. They knew what they were doing.

Finch cleared his throat.

The sixth man, the one that had been moving, was inside the building. He had likely climbed the outer wall, entered through a window. He moved quickly toward the hostages. "The team is getting set up now," Reese reported. "It will take a few minutes to get into position."

He wasn't quite sure why he was lying to Finch, except that it seemed kinder.

John remembered everything about being where they were. The soft smell of gun oil. The weight of the vest, and of the gun in his hands. The sweat dripping down his back. The soft voice in his ear, quiet commands over the radio. The bright hyper-alertness of his whole body. The feeling of the team, knowing the strengths and weaknesses of everyone around him. Being part of the pack. He remembered the tension, the excitement, of this moment. Everybody staying tight, reporting in. In position, ready, go on three…

The heat signature of the moving friendly reached the room with the hostages. The guard went from upright to vertical. He was down. In the next instant the hostages also went down. Reese felt his breath catch. But the two shapes moved, still down, probably rolling. They went from the center off the room to the nearest wall, and then more upright to the closest corner.

Not safe, he thought, but safer than they had been a minute before.

"Probably doing final equipment check now," Reese lied into Finch's ear.

The sentry on the southwest corner fell next.

The other friendlies moved into the buildings. There was a brief firefight, but the hostiles were badly outmatched.

The last sentry got outside the building – fire escape, ladder, something – before he was picked off by the sniper.

The strike team secured the building and a team of four moved in two different directions toward the hostages. They moved cautiously but very swiftly, and were with them within thirty seconds. They moved them out with the same cautious speed.

In the space of two minutes, the team and the hostages were out of the building.

Reese sat back, let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. "They're safe, Finch."

Finch started to answer, turned it into a cough. "Excuse me," he said to the State men.

"The hostages are out and they're safe," John clarified. "Ingram's safe. They're on their way out of the city now. Take a deep breath."

Harold did, audibly. "Can I … more coffee?" he offered faintly.

His guests demurred. Reese had the notion that at least one of them had an earpiece of his own and knew what was going down.

He watched as the satellite view pulled back. The strike team had vehicles waiting. They bundled their rescued hostages away quickly, probably quietly. Reese couldn't tell which of the two bright dots was Will Ingram and which was the other aid worker, and it didn't matter. They stayed very close together. Half-way around the world, they were safe.

"I wish that phone would ring," Harold said.

"I'm sure we'll have news soon," one of the men assured him.

"It's an inner-agency operation," Reese told him. "It will take a few minutes for word to move up the chain and back down."

No one pursued the trucks as they left. Possibly the operation had been too quick and quiet to attract any local attention. More likely the local officials had been bribed to ignore it. It was unlikely that the national government would get involved. They couldn't afford to anger the US; it was in their interest to pretend it had never happened. And they had enough problems with their own people.

There would be some kind of transport out of the country waiting, somewhere. Still a chance of a second attack, an IED or an ambush. But none of that was likely, and the men around the hostages were still heavily armed, highly alert.

Will Ingram was as safe as he could be.

Reese looked at the screens in front of him. He wouldn't get another chance like this. Quickly he began to look through the other screens.

A phone rang in Finch's office. One of the State guys muttered into it, and then announced, quite clearly, "Mr. Wren, Dr. Ingram's been recovered. He's safe."

"Oh, thank God," Finch breathed. "And the other man, too?"

"The other …"

"You said another aid worker had been kidnapped with him."

"Right, sorry. She's a woman, actually. I think." Cups clicked onto china, chairs were moved.

"Oh. Oh. I don't know why I assumed … thank you. Thank you so much. Can I … is there any chance I can talk to Will?"

"It will be an hour or two before they can get a secured signal out," one of the government suits told him. "We will have him contact you personally as soon as possible. But be assured that he is safe."

"Yes. Thank you. Yes." There was a brief pause. "Should I … that is, can I go to meet him? In what, Germany? Is there …"

"We're not sure, Mr. Wren. Those arrangements will be made once the operation is wrapped up. But I believe the plan is to bring them directly back to the States."

"I see …"

"Someone will contact you once that's been decided."

"And as we said," the other one contributed, "we'll see that you get to speak directly to Dr. Ingram as quickly as possible. But it will take a few hours."

"I'll keep my cell phone with me," Finch vowed. "I … I really don't know what to say."

"We'll be in touch."

There was movement; a door opened and closed. There was silence. "You all right, Harold?" Reese asked.

Harold's voice was soft but clear. "Much better now, Mr. Reese."

"The boy needs a keeper."

"He had one," Finch answered. "A very expensive team of them, in fact."

"Maybe you need to keep him close to home for a while."

"Easier said than done, I'm afraid. But I'll see what I can do." A pause. "I just need to _get_ him home, first."

"Oh, it sounds like the State Department will take care of that part."

"Yes. Thank you, John."

"I didn't do anything but watch," he pointed out.

"Knowing that you were watching was helpful. Reassuring, at any rate. Thank you."

And then, as Reese expected, the screens in front of him went blank. He could hear the keys of the phone click as his employer changed his password. He grinned to himself and sat back. Will Ingram was safe, Finch was annoyed, and he hadn't even mussed his jacket. Not a bad morning's work, he thought. Not bad at all.

* * *

Finch limped into the library less than an hour later. Sometimes the limp was less pronounced; today it betrayed how tense his body still was. Reese sat in one of the side chairs, pretending to be innocently reading. He could tell by the way Finch sat down at the computer that he wasn't buying it. "Good morning," he said cheerfully.

"Afternoon, actually, Mr. Reese." Harold's hands flew over the keyboard and a moment later the system sprang up again.

Reese watched him for a moment. "You can't blame me for trying, Harold. You knew I was curious when you hired me."

Finch nodded without looking up. "Of course. That's part of _why_ I hired you. And I don't begrudge your attempts to find out more about me. Any of them." He paused, looked over at Reese. "I truly appreciate your help this morning. Your observation made a difficult situation … somewhat easier."

"You haven't heard from the boy yet?"

"No. But they said it would take a few hours." His mouth drew tight. "I did hear from the director of Skydd. Will's entire security detail is dead."

"That's what you expected, isn't it?"

"Yes. Unfortunately." Finch shook his head. "I'm glad they were able to get to Will as quickly as they did. I can't imagine days or weeks of that kind of waiting. A single hour was agonizing."

Reese nodded. "They were planning to extract him."

Finch frowned, puzzled.

"They were planning to take him out of Mali before he was kidnapped. They knew someone was coming for him." He paused. "They must have gotten some good intelligence. From somewhere."

He watched the words sink in. Finch relaxed a notch. They would probably never know for certain whether the Machine had played a part in Will Ingram's swift rescue. But it was definitely a possibility. The money his captors might have demanded for ransom would have paid for a lot of terrorist activities.

"The boy's safe, Harold. He'll call soon. Relax. Maybe take the rest of the day off."

Finch just looked at him. After a long moment, Reese realized why. "We have a new Number."

"I told you, Mr. Reese. The Numbers wait for no man." With some resignation, he turned back to his keyboard.

John rolled to his feet. "All right. Get me what you can. Then I'll deal with the case. You deal with your nephew."

"I appreciate that," Finch answered. "And I may take you up on it. But as you say, Will is safe. And even if they fly him out right now it will take most of a day to get him home. Perhaps we can resolve this new matter before he gets here."

"Sure," Reese answered. They'd had Numbers they'd resolved in under a day. Plenty of them. But the way the world worked, he was absolutely certain this wouldn't be one of them. "Start the preliminaries. I'll go get some coffee. And tea."

"Mr. Reese," Finch said, before he got to the doorway. John turned back. "Thank you."

Reese nodded, a little embarrassed by the warmth in his employer' eyes, and went out.


	2. Chapter 2

"Her name is Julie Mullins," Finch said when he returned. He taped her picture to the board, took his cup from Reese's hand. She was a pretty blonde with short hair and brown eyes. "Thirty years old, works as a translator for a company called Universal Transport. They specialize in international shipments and logistics. She has an apartment in Brooklyn. Clean driving record. Unremarkable financials."

"International shipments may imply drugs," Reese mused.

"Perhaps."

Reese picked up his phone and dialed. On the fifth ring, a breathless woman answered, "Uhhh … Universal Transport, how can I help you?"

"Julie Mullins, please," Reese said evenly.

"One moment." There was a lengthy pause. "I'm sorry, Ms. Mullins isn't in today. Would you like her voice mail?"

Reese raised one eyebrow at Finch. "No, thanks. I'll try her at home."

"I … uh … believe she's out of town," the woman told him.

"Oh. All right then. I'll try her back next week. Thank you."

He hung up the phone, stood up. "I think I'll take a drive out to Brooklyn."

"I think that's an excellent idea," Finch answered. "I'll see what else I can find out about her."

"Let me know."

* * *

Reese let himself into the apartment and waited just inside the door, listening. There didn't seem to be anyone home. He looked around. Nice enough place, mid-range furniture, fairly neat. Small. He moved through the living room and glanced through a doorway at the single bedroom. The bed wasn't made. Smallish bathroom, with one damp towel thrown over the shower rod. One toothbrush in the holder next to the sink. He opened the medicine cabinet. Clearly only a woman lived here; no sign of a man. He went to the kitchen and looked in the refrigerator. It looked like a single woman's refrigerator, too, one who was a little worried about her weight.

He moved back to the living room and looked around more closely. There was framed commercial art on the wall, nothing helpful. In a drawer he found an electronic photo frame. He turned it on and flipped through all the pictures in it. There were four dozen, nearly all of them of a Hispanic family. The very last one was a group of young women. He snapped a picture of it with his phone, then plugged in a flash drive and downloaded all the photos. When it was done, he put the frame away.

By the front door there was a trash can that overflowed with junk mail. He bent and picked a handful out. None of it had been opened. He flipped through the stack, then touched his earpiece. "Finch? You there?"

"I'm here, Mr. Reese."

"Mary Delgado," he read off the junk mail. "Sarah Towne, with an 'e'. Rachel Smith. Serena Orazco." He ran through the stack again, then dropped it back into the trash.

"And who are they?" Finch asked.

"Possibly they're all sharing this cozy one-bedroom apartment with Julie Mullins. But more likely they're all fake identities." He sent the photo he'd taken from the electronic picture frame. "This may be them. Or not. But judging from the other pictures, the Hispanic girl is the only one who lives here."

"So where is Miss Mullins?" Finch wondered.

"I was hoping you could tell me."

There was clicking in the silence. "All of these young women are friends on Facebook," Finch finally said. "None of them are particularly active. Nothing controversial or even very personal." There was another pause. "You're right; I don't think any of these are real identities."

Reese studied the picture again. Five young women, all in t-shirts and shorts, all smiling, sweaty. Fit. Their target was second from the right. "Her name is not Julie Mullins, Finch."

"Obviously," Finch answered. "And we have no idea where to locate her. I'll find out what the five have in common."

"It's a good bet that Universal Transport is a front company, too," Reese offered.

Finch sighed. "You knew it wouldn't be an easy one, didn't you?"

"I had my suspicions." Reese let himself out of the apartment.

* * *

"As we know," Finch said, when Reese got back to the library, "when the Machine gives us a Number that's part of a false identification, it generally means that that ID has been compromised."

"She's an undercover?" Reese asked.

"I believe so. But I haven't been able to determine what agency she works for. You're sure she doesn't live in the apartment?"

"It's just a mail drop."

"As you predicted, Universal Transport is a false front as well." He took off his glasses, rubbed the bridge of his nose. A headache was gathering behind his eyes. "She's in danger, Mr. Reese, whatever her name is. We need to locate her. And I really have no idea where to look."

Before Reese could answer, Finch's phone rang. He glanced at the caller ID and relief surged through his body. "Will! Are you alright?"

The young man laughed. The connection was filled with static, but he'd have known that laugh anywhere. "I'm alright, Uncle Harold. I'm fine."

"I was scared to death, Will."

From the corner of his eye, he saw Reese retreat from the main room, down the corridor toward the stairs. It gave the illusion of privacy, though Finch was sure he could still hear every word he said. He didn't care. Not as much as he might have once, anyhow.

"I know," Will said, "and I'm sorry. Really, this was no big deal…"

"You were kidnapped at gunpoint." Finch snapped. "That's a big deal. A very big deal, in my book."

"We're fine," the boy said again. "We're not hurt. We barely had time to be scared. I promise, Uncle Harold, we're okay."

Harold sat back, forced himself to take a deep breath. "I'm sorry, Will. I'm probably over-reacting. I just …" He let the words fall off. But maybe the boy needed to hear them. "I couldn't stand to lose you, too."

He did not turn his head, but peripherally he could see Reese studiously not react.

"I know, Uncle Harold." Will's voice was soft for a moment, gentle. Then he cleared his throat, because conversational again. "So, um, the State Department has us and they're making us fly back to New York."

"Good."

"I don't really think it's necessary. I mean, we're not hurt or anything, I don't see why we …"

"If you're asking me to intervene, Will …"

"Could you?"

"Absolutely not. They must have their reasons."

"Uncle Harold …"

"And I want you back here. I want to see for myself that you're not hurt."

The boy sighed, audibly exasperated.

"Besides," Finch cajoled gently, "you probably need a real shower and a good meal anyhow."

There was a brief pause. "All right. I'll come home for a while."

"Good."

"But just for a while. Not really like I have any choice. But listen, can you do me a favor?"

"Of course."

"Can you meet me – us – at the airport?" There was muttering behind him. "Air _strip_, I guess. I don't know where they're flying us in to, I'll let you know."

"Of course," Harold repeated. He did glance at Reese then. Being invited to a secret government airstrip set off all his internal alarms. Reese moved closer, a little crease of concern between his eyes.

Finch reached out, hesitated, then pressed the key that put the rest of the conversation on speaker. The sentimental part of the conversation was over, anyhow.

Will's voice dropped to a near whisper. "And, um, could you bring chocolate?"

"Chocolate?"

"Really good chocolate. Like Godiva, one of those? Not a lot, just like, ten pieces. Dark chocolates, no nuts."

Finch frowned at his computer screens, not seeing them. "You don't like dark chocolate, Will."

Reese tipped his head, puzzled. He obviously wondered if it was some kind of code. Finch wondered the same thing.

"Yeah, I know." Will cleared his throat again, but continued to speak very softly. "The other, uh, the other hostage. She's coming back with me, on the plane. She doesn't have any family to meet her, so I thought … not a big box, she's kind of a health nut. Just a little …"

"Will …" Harold said.

The voice grew quieter still, but there was a smile in it. "I really want you to meet her, Uncle Harold. She's, um … she's pretty special."

"You were kidnapped with this woman for, what, three hours, and now you're telling me you have feelings for her?" Finch asked carefully.

Reese shook his head. Evidently it sounded like a terrible idea to him, too.

"No, it's not like that. I've been crazy about her for weeks, way before we were kidnapped, I just never got anywhere with her. But you should have seen her, Uncle Harold. She was just … I was scared to death, and she was just so calm, so together … look, just come and meet her, okay? And bring her chocolate? She's had a rough couple days."

"As have you," Finch sighed. "I will bring chocolates. Dark, no nuts. Understood."

"Thanks. I, uh … thanks. I gotta go."

Reese suddenly leaned down, urgently mouthed several words. Finch blinked at him, confused. He repeated it. "Will, wait," Finch said swiftly.

"Yeah?"

"Your young lady. What's her name?"

"Oh. Her name's Julie," Will answered. "Julie Mullins."

* * *

The library was silent. Except it wasn't, of course. Noise from outside traffic filtered in through the windows. The generator hummed; the computers whispered. The only sound missing was the omnipresent click of a keyboard. But its absence made the library seem lifeless.

Finch stared at his monitor. His fingers rested on the home keys. But he was not typing. Or moving. Reese had to look closely to make sure he was even breathing. "Harold," he said gently.

The genius turned his head a little to meet his eyes. "What if she means to kill him? _What if she intends to murder Will?_"

Reese shook his head firmly. "She's had dozens of opportunities to do that already. Think, Harold. If she wanted him dead, she'd have made it happen by now."

"Oh." Finch blinked. John could almost see the paralyzing fear leave him. He took a deep breath. Began to focus. "Oh. Of course."

"That doesn't mean he's in the clear," Reese continued reluctantly. "If someone's after her and he gets in the way, or if someone's after her because she stopped them from getting to him … but Will Ingram is _not_ her target. I'm sure of that much."

Finch nodded. "Is she safe, for now? Are _they_ safe?"

"State's got them wrapped up. They won't let either of them out of their sight until they get them back here."

"So we have a little time."

"Yes." Reese could see that the gears had re-engaged in Finch's head; he was thinking again, and probably faster than John ever would. "And we know we can start looking for background on her with State."

"I didn't know the State Department even had undercover agents," Finch admitted.

"Not many," Reese confirmed. "So she should be easy to find."

"Yes." Finch reached for the keyboard, then paused. "Will doesn't know, does he?"

"Probably not. Julie Mullins, or whatever her name is, is a government minder. Her job is to follow him around and keeps him out of trouble. And if that doesn't work, she calls in the big guns to get him _out_ of trouble."

"He had a security team. He didn't know about that, either."

"Why not?"

"Will's very independent. And highly resentful of the limitations that he felt his father's wealth imposed on him. When he was in high school he thought his bodyguard was reporting back to his father." He began typing.

"Was he?"

"Of course he was." Finch looked mildly annoyed . "So Will took to shaking him off whenever he could. They fought about it constantly. When Will went to college, Nathan discontinued the protection."

"Except he didn't," Reese guessed. "He just had them drop back a little, stay out of sight."

"Yes."

John nodded. "State knew about them. That's why they sent him a minder instead of a real covert op."

Finch raised an eyebrow at him, but didn't stop typing.

"State's agents are primarily assigned to diplomats and their families," Reese explained. "And they're mostly in the open. They have less training than some of the other agencies. A lot of their people aren't ex-military." He shrugged. "They're good at what they do. They're very diplomatic. Good at smoothing things over, making things run right. But if they get into trouble, they whistle for the big dogs. Our girl would have known about the private team. When they vanished, she screamed for help. Which is exactly what she's supposed to do. That's why there was an extraction team there. They weren't planning on having to rescue him. They were just going to throw him in a bag and get him out."

"Will would have been furious."

A little smirk pulled at the corner of Reese's mouth. "The mission would have been to get him out safe, not happy."

"Found her," Finch announced. He gestured to the screen. "Miss Mullins is actually Miss Essex. _Mrs._ Essex," he corrected. He frowned at the screen. "She married Paul Essex in 2004. He's a …" there was a brief pause for scrolling and tapping. "He _was_ Marine corporal."

"Was?"

"He was killed in 2006 in Afghanistan."

Reese shook his head. "Is that when she went to the State Department?"

"No. She'd been working at a consulate in Germany since shortly after they were married. But after Paul's death it does look like she retrained for field assignments." He looked further. "Before her marriage, she was …"

There was a very long pause. Reese stood up and moved closer. "Finch?"

Finch shook his head, aggravated. "It looks like everything prior to her marriage to Corporal Essex has been redacted."

"Standard procedure for undercovers. Even with State."

"It limits our knowledge," Finch complained. "Which limits our ability to help her."

"I doubt that an old college rival is trying to kill her now," Reese pointed out. "We're in good shape, Finch. We know who she is and who she works for. We know where she'll be tomorrow, and we know she's safe until then."

"Yes," Finch said dryly. "The only thing we don't know is who may be planning to kill her and why."

"Or who she may be planning to kill and why. But we have time to work on that." Reese rolled a chair closer. "We need to talk about you going to the airstrip, Harold. It's a bad idea."

Finch nodded. "You think this whole kidnapping drama may be a means to trap me." From his tone, that scenario had already occurred to him.

"I think we need to consider that possibility."

"I can't not go, John."

That was the answer Reese had expected. "That may be the point, Harold. They may have found the one thing you can't refuse."

Finch sat back, folded his arms over his chest. "If that were true, though, they could easily have detained me in my office."

"True." Reese sat quietly for a minute, rolling the possibilities around in his head. "Their choice of airstrip may tell us a lot about their intentions," he finally said.

"We probably won't know that until morning."

"Which may also be part of their plan." It was standard SOP to conceal the location of a meet from the enemy for as long as possible. It limited their ability to prepare, gave your side an advantage. He sighed. "Take a look, Harold. Look for chatter, for spikes in …"

"I _know_ what to look for," Finch reminded him, with just a bit of tartness in his voice.

"I know you do. I just wanted to make sure you weren't too distracted by Ingram and the girl."

Finch glared at him for a moment. Then his expression softened and he unfolded his arms. "Will can be a bit of a distraction at times," he admitted reluctantly.

"Yeah. I got that impression." Reese shrugged. "It may be nothing. It may be exactly as it's been presented. But as you're fond of saying, only the paranoid survive."

* * *

Reese returned to the library just after seven the next morning. He hadn't really wanted to leave the night before, but Finch had convinced him that first, he wasn't doing anything useful and second, once their target was back in the country, sleep might become a very rare commodity.

There was a third element that had gone unspoken. John sensed that Harold was deeply rattled by the day's events, by the reality that he might have lost Will Ingram. Reese would have stayed and tried to soothe his nerves, but Finch wasn't that kind. However deep their friendship became, Finch was at heart a recluse. To get his mental equilibrium back, what he required most was solitude. He wouldn't ask for it, not that baldly, but Reese had sensed his relief when he finally agreed to leave.

Finch had changed his clothes since the night before, but Reese doubted that he'd slept. The active board was full of new postings, mostly letters and reports surrounding their picture of the girl.

"Good morning, Mr. Reese." Finch sounded more like himself. He didn't look up from his desk; he was hunched over a small box wrapped in gold foil.

"You're putting bugs in her chocolate?" Reese said. "That's rather unappetizing."

Finch glanced up at him. "I suppose so, when you put it that way." He straightened, took the tea Reese had brought him with a grateful nod. Turned the box to examine the views on two monitors. "I don't actually anticipate that it will do much good, but I am fond of back-up plans."

Reese nodded. The box contained two cameras on opposite sides and a microphone. It might be useful – unless she put it in a drawer, or shared all the chocolates and threw the box in the trash. Still, it was worth a try. He stepped over to the glass and took a closer look. "You're been busy."

"I've been looking into Ms. Essex's history with the State Department. It's somewhat interesting, if not particularly helpful. But more importantly, at the moment, Mr. Ware just called. Will and Ms. Essex will be arriving around ten this morning."

"Where?"

"The NorthEast Aviation hangar at Teterboro."

Reese could feel the tension sliding off his shoulders. He'd only been half-aware that it was there.

"That's good, isn't it?" Finch continued.

"It's very good. Open, visible, public. It's possible, but it's not a great place for a snatch. Of course, it is in New Jersey."

"You haven't lived in this city long enough to rip on New Jersey," Finch said.

"I've lived here for more than ten minutes. Apparently that's long enough." He sobered. "That doesn't mean you're in the clear, Harold."

"I know. But it does mean it's less likely that the government is up to anything nefarious." He returned to his computer. "I've checked all night. There's some chatter related to the rescue, but nothing more."

Reese glanced at his watch. "I want to get out there first, have a look around. I'll pick up a tie. I can be your driver."

"No," Finch said flatly.

"I'm a very good driver," he protested. "Ask Zoe Morgan, she'll vouch for me."

"I'm sure she will. But if this is a snatch, as you say, I need you on the outside so you can come and get me."

John sighed. He'd pretty much known that was what Finch would say. And the truth was, he was right. But he would have been a lot more comfortable with the whole thing if he could have been right at Harold's back.

He gestured to the board. "Tell me about our girl."

Finch put the lid on the chocolates and stood to join him at the board. "As we learned yesterday, she was in as support position at a US consulate in Germany while her husband was in Afghanistan. After his death, she re-trained and took her first field assignment in 2007. She didn't work undercover, however, until late 2009. Her evaluations are glowing. Her reports are well-written and concise. And she gets love letters from her clients."

He gestured. Reese bent to read one of the letters. It was from an ambassador whose name and location had been redacted, and it praised her work with his small children during what sounded like a brief but violent local uprising. "Kept them calm and entertained," he read aloud, "which greatly assisted the defense of the consulate." He skimmed a little further. "She even helped the older boy get his history project done."

"This one," Finch said, tapping another, "is from a much older statesman, who finds her to be an excellent companion and promising bridge player. And in this one she managed to usher a teenage girl around the city without losing her temper at her even once. Which, I gather from the context, is a significant achievement."

"It doesn't sound like she's done anything particularly challenging," Reese mused. He scanned the other documents. "Still …"

Finch nodded. "I saw it, too."

"They're all rich."

"Rich, powerful, privileged. Or some combination thereof."

"Kind of a cushy niche, but I couldn't do it."

Finch raised one eyebrow. "You don't think you'd get along well with the very wealthy, Mr. Reese?"

"Not with the _conventional _very wealthy, no."

Harold seemed amused by that answer. He moved on. "Eleven months ago, Ms. Essex began to follow Will. At a distance, at first; apparently she checked in on him three or four times a day, but she didn't make contact. She also noted his security detail daily."

Reese nodded. The boy was covered. She had no reason to get close.

"Seven weeks ago, when he relocated to Mali …" Finch paused and did not quite roll his eyes, "… she signed on to the clinic as support staff and began to track him very closely." He tapped one other paper on the board. "This is her last report."

It was very concise. It contained their location and the exact nature of the expected threat. It was urgent, but not panicked. It explicitly requested an extraction, and it noted that the subject was likely to object.

It was sent roughly six hours before Will Ingram had been kidnapped.

Reese nodded approvingly. Within the limited scope of her training and assignments, Ms. Essex knew her stuff.

"But none of this," Finch complained, "gets us any closer to knowing who might be after her or why."

"True." Reese glanced at his watch again. "I'm going to go poke around New Jersey. Let me know if you find anything else."

On his way out of the library, he gathered a duffle and a small arsenal of guns. He knew Finch could hear him. But for once there was not even a token objection.

Not that it would have made any difference anyhow.

* * *

Finch parked his car just outside the steel building that was grandly labeled "NorthEast Aviation Air Hub". The larger part of the building could probably house five or six small jets. The attached entryway, which a smaller sign said was the boarding lounge, was no bigger than thirty feet on a side.

There were two black sedans with federal government plates parked next to the building. There was no one with them.

Harold sat very still for a moment, eyes closed, gripping the steering wheel, trying to fight down the panic that threatened to crush his chest. These were not the government men had betrayed him, that had killed Nathan. They were different men, and they had no quarrel with him. They didn't even know who he was. He was just an insurance man, significant only because he was listed as next of kin to a hot-headed young billionaire. All he had to do was go inside, wait for Will to arrive, and get him out safely.

In his ear, a deep and comforting voice said, "You okay, Finch?"

Finch made himself take a deep breath, and then another one. "I trust you're close by, Mr. Reese."

"Close enough."

"Good." He opened the door and slid out of the car, then reached back to retrieve the gold foil box. "Cameras receiving?"

"Just fine. Audio, too."

Finch took one more deep breath and walked into the building.

They had made the interior as plush as possible, with a deep pile carpet, dark wood trim, and oversized leather furniture. It still looked like a well-furnished tin box.

Finch's two visitors from the previous day were there, together with two other men. One was older, quite tall, and wore a good suit; the other, slightly younger and balding, was clearly dressed off the rack. All four of them looked at him expectantly. But there was no sudden drawing of weapons, no hurry to detain him. Only Ware moved toward him, and he did it casually. "Mr. Wren. Thank you for coming."

"I'm glad to be here," Finch lied.

He followed Ware to the other men. "Mr. Wren, this is Mr. Waldman, our … supervising agent, and Mr. Kemp."

Finch shifted the candy box awkwardly to his other hand and shook hands with both of them. "The plane isn't here yet?"

Walkman looked over his shoulder to the counter. "ETA?"

"On final approach now," the young lady there reported.

"Can I get you a cup of coffee?" Serra asked.

"No, thank you." Finch wandered over to the windows and looked out. He could see the tiny speck of a plane against the gray sky, distant and tiny. He held his breath, waiting for a hand on his shoulder, a harsh voice in his ear. If you're going to do it, he thought, do it now, before the boy gets here. He glanced over his shoulder.

None of the men had moved.

Reluctantly, he moved back toward them. "I want to thank you … to thank you all, for your part in bringing Will home safely," he said.

Waldman nodded. Whatever his title, he was clearly more important than a supervising agent. "I'm glad you're here, Mr. Wren. In light of recent events, we need to have a serious conversation about Dr. Ingram's future travels."

"Ahhh … yes."

Harold had a good idea what the conversation would entail, and his nephew was not going to like it. But if that was the reason they wanted him here, to placate Will Ingram, he would consider himself extremely lucky.

"I hope that you can help him see that traveling under his own identity had become intolerably dangerous."

"I will certainly be happy to stress that point with him," Harold agreed. "He can be, however, quite stubborn."

"We can be more stubborn," Kemp said gruffly. He gestured. "They're almost down."

The men all moved to the windows together. Finch felt crowded, confined among them, but there was still no move to arrest or detain him. He scratched at his ear, touched his earwig for reassurance. Whatever happened, Reese was there. He made himself focus on breathing.

The plane landed without incident and rolled casually to the gate. It was, Finch noted, a Challenger – the trans-Atlantic big brother version of the Lear Jet – a distinction that he'd learned from Nathan Ingram. Ingram preferred the Challenger for its additional headroom. It was not an issue Finch would have noticed on his own. He was …

Distracted.

He took another breath and forced himself to stay alert. The man around him were still relaxed, almost bored. The plane stopped, and there was the usual interminable, unexplainable delay in opening the door. Finch juggled the candy from one hand to the other. He looked down at it, checked that both cameras were undetectable. Except that they weren't, of course, for him; he knew exactly where they were. He set it on the windowsill and looked out the window again.

And what if they'd lied? What if Will wasn't on the plane at all? What if the plan was to rush him out and throw him onto the jet? Reese was good, but he couldn't catch an airplane … and if Will wasn't on the plane, was he already dead somewhere? The idea cut through him like a blade of ice.

And then, mercifully, Will Ingram came through the door of the plane.

Finch's head felt light. His heart felt light. The boy looked thin, tired, dirty. But he was obviously uninjured. He stopped on the third step and looked back, waiting. A young woman followed him out of the plane; Finch was a little relieved that she was, in fact, the young woman in the picture in the library. Will took her hand and led her down the steps. They were both smiling, clearly sharing some small joke.

They looked good together. Comfortable, happy.

They looked like young people in love.

It was a lie, and Will was the only one who didn't know it.

Kemp opened the door for them. The girl paused; Will kept walking and threw his arms around Finch.

Harold held him as tightly as he could. The boy felt thin. But he was Will, familiar and real, and Finch felt like his heart would explode. Whatever else happened, the boy was here and safe. He felt like he could take a deep breath for the first time in more than a day.

When he opened his eyes, the girl was still standing in the doorway, watching him or maybe Will. Kemp was whispering in her ear. She nodded, moved toward them.

Will broke the hug, kept one arm around Finch, and turned with the other to draw the woman in. "Uncle Harold," he said, with his father's beautiful grin, "this is Julie Mullins. Julie, this is my uncle, Harold Wren."

She smiled with genuine warmth. Her eyes were brown and bright; her nose had a tiny and frankly adorable little crease in the center of it. She'd broken it, he realized, and although it was barely noticeable, it wasn't quite perfect. The small imperfection enhanced her beauty. She extended her hand and Harold took it. And then, entirely on impulse, he drew her into an embrace instead. He expected her to resist. Instead she returned the hug warmly.

Where Will was just skinny, Finch noted, the young woman was firm, compact. Solid. It was a little like hugging a miniature version of Reese.

Julie drew back, still smiling. "It's wonderful to meet you."

"And you. I …" Finch looked around, located the box of chocolates on the window sill. He picked them up and gave them to her. "Will asked me to bring these."

She took the box. Her smile faltered. She met Finch's eyes for a moment longer, and he saw regret. "You're going to make this really hard, aren't you?"

"I don't understand," he murmured.

Julie probably didn't hear him; she had already turned to Will. "Band-Aid question."

"Huh?"

"If you have a big bandage on your arm and you have to change it, do you pick one corner and then peel it slowly, or do you just rip it off?"

Will's forehead creased with confusion, but he played along gamely. "I rip it."

"I thought so." She glanced at Finch again, then turned to face Will squarely. "My name isn't Julie Mullins, and I'm not your girlfriend. I work for the government. And I'm here to help you."

Ingram's grin broadened. "Funny, Jules."

"I wish I was kidding."

The smile fell away. "Julie …"

Joe Kemp joined their group. "She works for me, son." He pulled a badge and flapped it open, showed it to Will and then gave it to the young woman.

Finch could see Will coiling with anger as the truth sank in. "You lied to me," he said quietly.

"I did. I'm sorry." Julie tucked her badge into a pocket.

"You lied to me," Will repeated, louder. "You lied to me from day one. You lied to me all along."

"Settle down, son," Kemp said.

"Everything," Ingram continued. His voice grew louder with every word. "_Everything_ was a lie. Was even a single word you said to me true? Was there anything you _didn't_ lie about?"

Harold looked around. The other government men were watching, but none had gotten any closer. They'd been expecting this; they were unimpressed by the show of temper.

"How could you do this?" Will was shouting now. "What kind of person are you, that you could just … just use my … I thought you were _special_. I thought you were … but you're just like the rest of the government. You just lie, you just use people, use your …"

"Will," Harold said sharply.

"She made me think she was … that we were … how could you do that? How could you let me fall in love with you, when you knew none of it was true?"

"She was trying to keep you safe," Finch snapped.

Julie touched his arm lightly. He looked at her, and she shook her head very slightly. "It's okay," she murmured.

"It's not," he answered. His nephew was spinning out of control, on his way to a full-fledged tantrum. "Will, she was trying to protect you."

"To protect me. Why? Because I'm rich? Because I'm too dumb to be able to take care of myself? I need people to lie to me to make sure I'm safe? I'm too spoiled? Too stupid? What?"

"All right." Waldman stepped up and put a hand the size of a bear paw on Will's shoulder. "I understand you're upset. The girl made you feel like an idiot. That's what she does. That's her job, to get right next to you and never let you suspect that she works for us. She's very good at it. And you know what? It saved your ass. So put your hurt feelings under the seat and listen up."

It helped, Finch noted, that Waldman was roughly the size and build of Nathan Ingram. Something in Will responded to him at an instinctive level. It helped, too, that Julie retreated from the group. She went and stood by the door again, watchful, available, but out of the way. Out of Will's immediate line of sight.

"Here it is, Dr. Ingram," Waldman continued. "I don't know what the hell you were thinking." He looked up to include Finch in the discussion. "Either of you." He looked back at Will, but took his hand off his shoulder. "Your father was a billionaire, and now you're one. And yet you run all over the world using your own name, and you don't think a dozen different nutjobs are going to come after you, trying to get at some of that money. Are you just out of your mind? Or are you really that naïve?"

Will sputtered; the man cut him off. "Eight good men and that woman put their lives on the line to get you out of Mali safely. A hundred analysts and agents and other people put their time and energy into the effort. So if you want to stand there and bitch about how unfair it is that you were lied to, you go ahead. But you put yourself in that position when you put yourself in danger. And I am telling you right now, Dr. Ingram, it's not going to happen again."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means that we're flagging your passport. Unless you submit a security plan that's acceptable to the Department, you will not be allowed to travel to any country where we consider your safety to be at risk."

"_What?_"

"We saved your ass this time. We don't want to have to do it again."

"You can't do that!" Will shouted. "You have no right to do that. You can't tell me where I can go and where I can't. You _can't_."

Waldman continued to be unimpressed. "Actually, we can. And that's exactly what we're doing."

Ingram turned to Finch. "They can't really do this, can they?"

"I don't know, Will. We can have an attorney look at it …"

"Do that," Waldman agreed. "But in the meantime, you'll have to find people here at home to help."

"You can't do this!"

Serra cleared his throat. "Gear's off the plane, sir."

"Good." Waldman gestured to the counter. "Dr. Ingram, we have some documents for you to complete. Then you're free to go."

"We – I did all your damn paperwork in London."

"We have more."

"You can't do this," Will said one more time. "I swear …" He turned to glare at the young woman one last time, as if their decision was her fault. Then he stomped over to the counter.

Julie Essex quietly checked her phone. Finch turned his back to her, drew his own phone out and quickly cloned hers. Then he tucked it away and moved to her side.

Without a word, Julie held the gold box out to him.

"No, no," Finch protested. "Please, I want you to keep it. I'm very grateful for all you've done for Will. Even if he isn't, at the moment."

She put the chocolates back on the windowsill beside her. "He's not wrong, you know. I've been lying to him non-stop for weeks." Like the men, she was calm, unimpressed by Ingram's outburst.

"You saved his life."

"Actually, the big guys with the big guns saved his life. I just kept his head down while they did it."

"In my book it's the same," Finch assured her. "I'm a bit confused, though. Why did you tell Will who you really were? Why did you, er …"

"'Burn my cover' is the cool-kids phrase you're looking for." She shrugged. "It's cleaner this way. The cover was a year old, so it's stale. And," she met his eyes again, "we figured you'd already burned it anyhow."

"Me?" Finch said, with as much surprise as he could fake.

"You're in insurance, right? You have resources? If I were you, every time the words 'I met this girl' came out of Will's mouth, I'd start running a background check. Yes?"

Finch let a rueful smile play around the corners of his mouth. "Well. Yes."

"Good. Because God knows he'd never think of it."

"You know him very well."

"Well enough." Julie looked over to where Will was signing papers – and still complaining. "He has a trusting heart. It's a damn shame that sooner or later the world will burn it out of him." Then she brightened. "But not today."

"No," Finch agreed. "Not today." He touched the woman's arm. "I wouldn't have told him, if you'd asked me not to."

"Thank you. But I think Will deserves one person in his life who's not lying to him."

Finch took a deep breath. He'd come to expect that Will could occasionally and quite by accident say something that sliced right to his heart. He hadn't expected it from a stranger. I have lied to Will Ingram every day of his life, he thought bleakly. I have lied to him about small things and about important things. About who I am. About how and why his father died. About everything. And I will keep on lying to him, until the day I die.

He blinked and looked away.

"That being said," Julie continued quietly, "I don't think there's any reason he needs to know about the Skydd team right now."

"For all the good they did him."

She put her hand lightly on his arm. "They did him a lot of good. They got him out of trouble he never even saw. And … they're probably all dead. When he decides he needs to be out in the world again, I highly recommend that you use them to get him a new team."

Finch frowned. "Your supervisor just said that he wouldn't be allowed to travel internationally."

"Sure. And that will last until Ingram remembers that he has billions of dollars and can therefore do pretty much any damn thing he wants to in this country."

"I suppose so."

The paperwork, he realized suddenly, was all for show. It was an excuse for the woman to be alone with Finch. They'd given up on convincing Will before they'd even started. _He_ was the one they wanted to win over. And Ms. Essex, they'd determined, had the best shot.

She specialized, after all, in dealing with the wealthy and those around them.

They weren't wrong, he had to admit, in their assessments. Any of them. Her forthright, common-sense approach made her a very persuasive young woman.

"Take this," Julie said. She drew out her badge, and from behind it produced a business card. "He's a cobbler, probably the best in the country."

"A … cobbler? He makes fake ID's?"

"In the old days. Now they create whole identities, electronic and all. He can make Will a passport and driver's license, but also re-create his college record, his medical license, whatever he needs."

"Is that legal?"

"Not really." She glanced over at Will again. "Of course, the cobbler will then provide us with Will's new name."

"And you'll start watching him all over again," Finch completed.

"Not me, personally, but someone, yes."

She was telling him this, Finch knew, because they assumed he'd figure it out anyhow. Certainly Will's new security team would notice a new State Department minder on the scene and alert him. They were being, for a government agency, remarkably frank with him. They were also making him complicit in deceiving Will.

They knew they couldn't control the boy, not for long. So they'd appealed to someone they thought could. Whether _that_ assessment was correct remained to be seen. Finch had never been confident in his ability to do any more than gently steer the boy's headlong charges. He nodded solemnly and tucked the card away. "Thank you. For everything. I'm very sorry that Will's being so … unreasonable."

"He needs to hate me for a while," Julie said simply. "That's how he gets past this. Please don't try to talk him out of it."

"You've been through this before," Finch realized. He studied the young woman. Almost against his will, he liked her. Her calm. Her understanding. Her kindness. Certainly he would see what Will saw in her, well beyond her physical appearance. He found himself believing what she was said, taking her words at face value.

It set off alarms in his brain.

"It comes with the job."

"It can't be easy."

She looked toward Will again. "He's home, he's safe. I don't really mind listening to him bitch about it."

Despite her words, Finch could see the pain in her eyes, in her posture. There was a sad resignation about her. She cares for the boy, he thought. Maybe it wasn't the way Will thought, or the way he wanted. But whatever else she might be lying about, Will Ingram was more than an assignment to her.

She drew back again, and a moment later Will was at his side, snarling. "Let's get the hell out of here, Uncle Harold."

Finch took his elbow and gave it a squeeze. "Yes. Let's go."


	3. Chapter 3

**1988**

"Uncle Harold?" the boy said quietly.

"Yes, Will," Harold said absently, without looking up from the blueprints on the worktable in front of him.

"Uncle Harold," he said again, this time with a very small quaver in his voice, "I fell down."

Harold looked up – and held his breath. The boy stood in front of him with his hands to his sides. Fresh blood started at his hairline and covered the left side of his face, his left shoulder, and most of the left side of his shirt. Harold's stomach lurched with sickness and he forced it down. "So you did," he finally managed to say. He was surprised but pleased that there was no panic in his voice.

He looked around. Nathan had gone in search of a tape measure and tape; they were both having trouble envisioning the lay-out that was on the blueprint and he wanted to mark it out on the floor. He pulled out his handkerchief and knelt in front of the boy. He dabbed at his forehead, but the blood seemed endless and he couldn't see exactly where it was coming from. Will backed away from his touch.

Harold took his arm gently. "Here, here," he said. He sat down in the folding chair, drew the boy onto his lap. He cradled him against his shoulder, with Will's back against his own chest, and placed the handkerchief on the child's forehead, where his best guess said the wound was. Then he held it firmly.

Will trembled. At least Harold thought it was Will; it was hard to be sure. He could feel his own heart racing. It was an awful lot of blood. And he was not particularly good with blood, his own or someone else's. But what the boy needed at that moment was a calm and reasonable adult, and Harold was determined not to fail him. "Shhh," he soothed. "You're alright, Will."

"Is it bad?"

"I don't know. We'll see in a few minutes. Let's just apply some pressure for now."

"Will that hurt?"

Harold chuckled. "Applying pressure is what I'm doing right now."

"Oh. That's not so bad."

"Try to slow your breathing down. Take big deep breaths, in through your nose, out through your mouth. It will help."

Will tried his best. His breath was shaky, still too shallow, but Harold was pretty sure that was caused more by emotion than blood loss.

Nathan came back, with tape. "Harold, where's the … what the hell?" He dropped to his knees in front of his son. "Jesus, Will, what did you do?"

For the first time tears glittered in the child's eyes. "I fell down."

"Were you running?" he barked. "I told you not to run in here. These unfinished floors are slippery. They're dangerous, Will." He looked up at Harold. "How bad is it?"

"We'll see in a few minutes," Harold answered calmly. He could feel the boy's ribs shaking. He was trying desperately not to cry. He wasn't sure when that had started, Will's complete unwillingness to cry in front of his father. A year ago, at least.

"We should never have brought him with us. I knew it was a bad idea …"

The boy quivered again. Harold interrupted his father. "Why don't you go find him a soda?"

"A what? You know his mother doesn't like …"

"Nathan," Harold said, very firmly.

Ingram hesitated. He'd gotten the message loud and clear: He was just making it worse. "Your mother's going to kill me, you know."

Will sniffed. "I'm sorry, Dad."

"Oh, Will." He reached out and ruffled the un-bloodied side of the boy's hair. "I'm not mad at you. I'm just …" He stopped, looked at Harold again, then back to the boy. "A soda, huh?"

Harold nodded. "Let's give this a few minutes," he said, gesturing with his chin towards the forehead. "Then we'll see what we're up against."

Nathan nodded. "I'll be right back." He hurried out.

"Do I have to get stitches?" the boy worried.

"I don't know yet," Harold answered honestly. "Head wounds tend to bleed way out of proportion to their size."

"Pro … what?"

"Proportion? That means …" Harold searched for the right words. He understood the concept perfectly well, but expressing it in small words was unexpectedly difficult. "Do you know ratio?"

"No."

"Okay. Let's see. You like to make your own cinnamon toast for breakfast, I hear."

"Yeah."

"Do you use the same amount of sugar and cinnamon? Or do you use more sugar?"

"More sugar," the boy answered.

"Maybe twice as much sugar as cinnamon?"

"I guess."

"That's a proportion. Twice as much of one thing as another. And if you wrote that down as numbers, two colon – that's the two dots, on top of each other? – one, that would be a ratio. Does that make sense?"

"I … guess."

Harold smiled gently. "Let's try another one. Let's see … bubble bath. Do you use the same amount of bubbles and water?"

Will actually giggled. "No."

"No, because that would just be a big tub of slime. So do you use twice as much water as bubbles? Is that the ratio?"

"No, I use like two capfuls." The boy hesitated. "Sometimes three," he admitted, "but Mom gets mad."

"Right. So that ratio is more like one to a hundred, roughly? And the proportion is one part per hundred."

Will nodded gently, against the pressure of his uncle's hand. "I get it."

"It's important to try to keep the right proportions of things. For example, you want to eat four parts healthy food to one part dessert. Right? Or spend one part of your time on homework for every three parts you spend chasing girls."

The boy made a face. "Ewwwwww!"

"You'll get to that later," Harold promised him. "Now, your head, and especially your face, have a lot of tiny blood vessels very close to the surface. So when you get a wound there it bleeds a lot. It frequently looks much more serious than it really is." Harold glanced down at the sleeve of his jacket, now covered with the boy's blood, too. But no new bleeding seemed to be happening under the handkerchief. "It's like a capful of bubble bath makes a whole tub of bubbles. The amount of bleeding is out of proportion to the size of the wound. Understand?"

"I get it." Will was relaxed in his arms now.

"Good."

"I like it when you teach me stuff, Uncle Harold. It makes my head not hurt so much."

Harold closed his eyes for a moment. There was something about this son of Nathan's, something in his innocence and honestly, that sometimes sliced through all Harold's carefully-constructed defenses and straight into his heart. It was unnerving, to be touched by someone's words. It was wonderful. And it was rare. He sighed gently. "I've learned, Will, that learning something new is always a good way to reduce your pain. This kind, or the kind that's in your heart. The human brain has a finite capacity for …"

"What?"

"Finite?" Harold asked. "Sorry. Finite means that something can be counted, that is has a limited size or capacity."

"Uhhh …"

Nathan can back onto the empty floor, started across to them.

"The opposite of finite is infinite," Harold continued. "There are an infinite number of fish in the sea. Too many to count. But only a _finite_ number of those fish can fit in your boat, right? You could count them, or pretty nearly count them."

"Ooooh."

"Got that one, or do you need another example?"

"I got it," the boy said happily. "But … it can change, right?"

"Hmmm?"

Nathan crouched in front of the boy, opened a can of Sprite and handed it to him. "Here."

Will took it gingerly. "I like Coke better."

"I know. But it's too late in the day for you to have that much caffeine."

"Caffeine?"

"It's a chemical in soda and some other beverages," Harold told him. "It keeps you awake."

"Oh." The boy sipped the soda. "The fish number. It can change, right? If they're really big fish or really tiny fish?"

"Yes," Harold said enthusiastically. "Very good, Will. Excellent thinking. But whether they're big or small, they're still countable. Still a finite number."

Nathan looked at him again. "Infinity, Harold? He's five years old."

"Almost six!" Will protested swiftly.

"Your mind," Harold told the boy, ignoring Nathan, "can only think about a few things at one time. It can only hold so many fish. So if you're learning something new, it can't concentrate on how much your head hurts. Or your heart, when you're old enough to change your mind about girls."

Will giggled again.

Nathan sighed. "Well, shall we?"

Cautiously, Harold lifted his hand and the handkerchief. Nathan leaned forward to study the wound. Harold tipped his head to look.

"Do I have to get stitches?" Will asked again, with fear back in his voice.

"I don't know …" Nathan reached out finger out, stopped just short of touching the boy. "There? Is that it?"

"I think so," Harold agreed uncertainly. The injury was just below the hairline, and no bigger than the very tip of Will's smallest finger. He turned the handkerchief over and wiped away part of the drying blood. "I don't see anything else."

Nathan sat back on his heels. "Did you land on a bolt or something? The head of a screw?"

Will shook his head. "I don't know. I didn't see it." And then, again, "Do I have to get stitches?"

"I don't know." Nathan looked at Harold again, uncertainly. "It's not very big, but it's deep. I suppose we should have someone look at it?"

"Or you could just put one of those dot bandages on it and call it a day," Harold countered. "It's already stopped bleeding. He's current on his tetanus vaccine, isn't he?"

"I'll have to check."

"I don't want any shots," Will protested.

Nathan sighed. "Will …" He stood up, put his hand out to the boy. "Let's get you home and clean you up. Then we'll see if we need to go see a doctor."

Will slid to his feet and took his father's hand, but he looked back anxiously. "You don't," Harold assured the boy. "You're fine." He leaned forward and looked at the wound one last time. "And you're going to have a small but very interesting scar there."

The boy almost grinned. "Like a pirate?"

"Like a pirate."

Nathan shook his head. "Don't encourage the boy, Harold." But his chiding was light. "I don't know what I'm going to do with either of you."

They started out of the empty room. At the doorway, Will said, very quietly and with great almost-six-year-old gravity, "Well, you _could _buy us ice cream."

Nathan looked at him, surprised. Then he looked at Harold, spread his free hand in bewildered supplication. Harold simply laughed, and after a minute Nathan laughed with him.

* * *

**2012**

Reese sat behind the wheel of the unremarkable sedan and listened to Finch and his nephew as they left the airstrip. The boy was complaining when he got in the car and didn't seem likely to stop soon. Finch's side of the conversation was limited to sympathetic grunts and noncommittal murmurs. Reese knew that sound from him; it meant that his boss was only barely paying attention and had no intention of arguing. Evidently he'd taken Julie Essex's advice to heart. Either that, or he'd decided there was no point in speaking until the young man had finished venting.

The boy's complaints veered wildly between his newly-imposed travel restrictions and the deep betrayal he felt he'd been subjected to. The woman's lies took on a bigger part of the rant as he went on. Reese nodded to himself. It was exactly the response the State Department had wanted, the response they had deliberately provoked. He would probably turn his attention to the passport issue sooner or later, but for the first few weeks, at least, his outrage would be personal. It would be all about the girl.

She's broken cover to distract Will Ingram. And it had worked perfectly.

Reese watched as Finch's car turned onto the access road and headed back toward the city. As far as he could tell, no one followed. That didn't mean anything; he'd have chosen overhead surveillance, himself.

He turned the volume on their conversation down low and focused his attention on their target. He knew that Finch had set up a recording of the phone tap at the library so that he could review the conversation later if necessary, but he might catch actionable intelligence in real time.

Julie left the small hangar shortly after Finch and Ingram and walked to a car with her handler, Joe Kemp. "That went well," the man said dryly.

"I knew it would," Julie answered. She sounded tired.

"How'd you do with the uncle?"

"Good. He's on board with us. I told you he would be. He's Ingram's voice of reason."

"Maybe the voice of reason should speak up a little more often."

"Mmmm. You got my other bag?"

"In the trunk."

"Pop it." Julie threw her gear into the trunk, and set the box of chocolates beside it. Reese glanced at his tablet and found he had a lovely close-up view of the car's upholstery and a more distant one of a carry-on bag. Then both went dark as she slammed the trunk.

"How's Melanie?" Julie asked as she got into the front seat.

"She's good," Kemp started the car. "She finished her last chemo two weeks ago. Her appetite's coming back. A little."

"Good to hear. It's been a long haul for you guys."

"Yeah, it has."

"The kids?"

"They're okay. Stressed out. Having my mom there helps."

"Good."

There was a pause in the conversation. Kemp steered the car toward Manhattan. Reese gave them a comfortable head start and pulled out after them.

"You okay?" Kemp finally said.

"Yeah. Just tired."

"Well, let's get your paperwork done and I'll drop you off at the hotel."

Julie groaned out loud. "I already sent you the preliminary. Can't I do the rest tomorrow? Please?"

"Just get it over with, kid."

"No, seriously, Joe. I'm exhausted, I'm starving, and I'm covered with the ichor of Agency smugness."

Kemp chortled. "That bad, huh?"

"Oh, my God. Couldn't you have sent the Marines or the Rangers or the SEALs or the damn Cub Scouts? I hate those CIA jerks."

"What's the difference?"

Reese shook his head. He'd been on both sides; he knew there was a huge difference.

"When a Marine's done shooting, he's still a Marine. When an Agency guy is done shooting, he turns into a condescending asshole."

Kemp laughed. "And they say such nice things about you."

"Uh-huh. Things like, 'she stays out of the way when we tell her to' and 'she's got a nice ass'."

"Well … yeah, pretty much."

Reese nodded to himself. He hated to admit it, but she had it exactly right.

The girl muttered something about pretentious overgrown frat boys and fell silent.

After a time, Kemp said, "This isn't about the CIA. What's bugging you?"

"Nothing."

"You upset about the boy? "

"No."

"Jules. You lied to him. He's pissed off. He'll get over it."

"I know."

"He's an ungrateful little snot, just like every other rich kid. So what?"

"It's not Will," Julie answered. "I told you, I'm just tired. Been a hell of a week. And now I appear to be in freaking New Jersey. Why the hell am I in New Jersey, Joe?"

"You're changing the subject. You always fall in love with them."

She snorted. "Shut up."

"I keep tellin' you, kid …"

"Yeah, yeah. Shut up."

"You do look like hell. Listen, after you finish the paperwork – tomorrow, fine – you should take some down time. Maybe go see your folks, kick back in the lap of luxury."

There was a long pause. "What?"

"Go home. Get a massage and a mani-pedi or whatever you girls do. Go ride a horse or go sailing or swimming or whatever. Relax."

The second pause was even longer. "What?" Julie said again.

Joe sighed loudly. "Julie, you haven't seen your parents in over a year. You should go home for a while."

"They got to you," she said slowly. "My parents got to you."

"They didn't get to me …"

"They got to you," she repeated. "What the hell, Joe? How much did they pay you? What did it cost to lure you into their corner?"

"They're your parents and they miss you," Kemp repeated. "All I did was agree to encourage you to go for a visit. It's not a big deal. But they're right. You should go."

"How much, Joe?" Julie insisted. She didn't sound precisely angry to Reese, but under her bantering tone there was a level of steel. She wasn't happy about it.

"They, uh, they sent me a cooler full of prime rib."

"You sold me out for a box of meat. Nice."

"Hey," Kemp protested, "it's not meat, it's prime rib. Do you have any idea how much that costs these days?"

"No, actually. There wasn't a lot of steak in Mali."

"Well trust me, it costs an arm and a leg. And besides, it wasn't one box. They send a cooler every week."

"So you sold me out for a box of meat and a heart condition. That makes it much better."

"I haven't had prime rib since before Melanie got sick. So yeah, I took a bribe and I told them I'd send you home. You want to turn me in for that, go ahead. Jesus."

There was a long, uneasy silence. Reese noted that the handler drove a little faster; he accelerated to keep up. "Don't talk to my parents anymore," Julie said.

"Fine. I don't know what you …"

She interrupted, excited. "Did you see that guy?"

"What guy?"

"In that cab. Right there. Catch up with him."

"What?"

"Just catch up with him," she insisted urgently. "Do you have a camera?"

"What? No."

"Joe, catch up with him."

He gunned the engine as directed, and Reese sped up again to stay with him. He saw the girl moving in the passenger seat; she climbed over the seat and landed in the back.

"Who is he?" Kemp insisted. "Who the hell am I chasing?"

"I don't know," Julie answered. She had moved to the driver's side and from the sound of the wind, rolled down the window. "But I've seen him a couple times now. Come on, Joe, get me closer."

"Jesus," he muttered again. "Seen him where?"

"I don't know. But I recognize him."

"He's probably some TV star or something. 'Dancing with the Stars' or one of those things."

"Joe," the woman said firmly, "I have watched no American television for more than a year. Skinny one on the right. Go go go."

He accelerated again and drew even with the cab. Reese heard the click of a cell phone taking pictures. He was driving too fast himself to look at his phone, but he knew he'd captured whatever she was clicking on.

The cab swerved in front of them, then to the far lane, and took the next exit ramp off the freeway.

Kemp slowed his vehicle to within shouting distance of the speed limit, and Reese dropped his own car back again. The girl vanished in the back seat. A minute later she stuck her feet out the side window. Her sneakers waved in the rushing wind.

"You get it?" Kemp asked.

"Ahhh … crappy picture," Julie answered. "I'll send it to you. Can you run it for me?"

"What the hell am I running? Some picture of a guy you think you might have seen before somewhere?"

"Yeah."

"You're not even on an assignment," he reminded her.

"I know. But run it anyhow. Please."

"Get your feet back in the car before I get pulled over."

The feet disappeared. A moment later the girl clambered over the seat back and dropped into the passenger seat again.

"You're jumping at shadows," Kemp said.

"Maybe."

"You been in the field too long. You need some downtime."

"You may be right."

"Go see your folks."

"Joe. Shut up about my parents."

"Fine."

Another long silence. Finally, Julie said, "Where'd you book me?"

"Courtyard. Same as always."

"No. Take me to the Mandarin."

"What?"

"I want to stay at the Mandarin."

"Your per diem won't begin to touch that place."

"I don't care," she answered. "As you've so helpfully reminded me, I have money of my own. And they have the best lap pool in the city."

"Whatever you say." After a pause, he asked, "That's not where Ingram's staying, is it?"

"No."

"Look, Julie, I know you. You fall in love with all of them. The ambassadors, the grannies, the kids … especially this guy. You need to stay away from him."

"You think I don't know that, Joe?" Julie snapped. "I know how I am about my cases. I know I get way too involved, and I know I work better that way. And I know how to get myself out of it. I don't need your advice on that. And I don't need your advice about my home life."

"Fine. Fine. Maybe all you rich kids are alike after all."

"Maybe we are, Joe. Maybe all of us resent being betrayed by people we should be able to trust."

"I didn't betray you. I talked to your parents. God, stop being such a little drama queen."

They were silent for the rest of the drive into the city. Reese checked in on Finch and Ingram; their car had gone silent, too. When the silence finally broke, Finch's was the first voice Reese was able to hear. "Do you want me to come in with you?"

"No," Will Ingram grumbled. "I just want to shower and sleep."

"I'll come pick you up at dinner time, then."

The young man sighed. "Uncle Harold …"

"No argument, Will. Get some rest. I'll see you this evening."

"Fine," he answered without enthusiasm.

There were doors opening and closing. Reese turned them down, listened to the other car. There, finally, Joe Kemp was the first one to speak. "I'm sorry, Julie. I didn't realize it would be a big deal."

"Just don't talk to them anymore. And for the love of God, don't tell them I'm here."

"Fine. Paperwork. Eight-thirty tomorrow?"

"Yeah. Run that picture for me."

More car doors; a trunk opened. The candy cam jiggled. "Hey, Jules?"

"Yeah?"

"This guy in the picture. I don't think it's anything. But keep your head up, okay?"

"Now who's jumping at shadows?"

"Just looking out for you, kid."

"Thanks, Joe."

The trunk slammed, and the girl went into the hotel.

* * *

Reese was not surprised when Finch opened the passenger door and got in the car with him. "Nice to have you back, Finch."

"Nice to be back." Harold did not sound happy. "Nathan Ingram always kept a bottle of very good Irish whiskey in his desk drawer. For family emergencies, he said. I never completely understood what he meant until this morning."

"The kid's had a rough couple days," Reese said. "He'll settle down."

Finch looked at him, unconvinced. "Should I be concerned that the young lady has decided she needs to stay this close to Will?"

The two hotels were less than a block apart, at right angles across Central Park. "Does he always stay there when he's in town?"

"Yes. And they discussed it, on the way from London."

Reese frowned. "She says she's there for a lap pool. I guess if she goes for a swim we'll have an answer." He looked at his tablet again. The candy cams had steadied; one side was looked directly at very nice curtains, but the other, helpfully, was aimed at the couch in the sitting room section of the suite. It was just at couch-level; he guessed she'd dropped it on a coffee table. "You need to listen to the phone tape. I may have been wrong about needing to know who she was before she was married. There's something going on with her parents, and it's not good."

"How so?"

"They bribed her handler to keep them informed of her whereabouts. He's strongly encouraging her to go home for a visit. And from the sounds of it, there's some money there. Horses and sail boat money, at least."

"That would explain her ease with wealthy targets," Finch said slowly. "She's certainly not intimidated by the rich and powerful." He nodded, mostly to himself. "Still, I find it unlikely that her parents are planning to murder her."

"Carl Elias," Reese reminded him. Elias had murdered his father; his father would have murdered him first if he'd gotten the chance. And had any sense.

"Still," Finch said, "this doesn't seem like that sort of situation, does it? She seems familiar somehow."

"You think you've met her before?"

"No. I'm quite sure I haven't. But I may have met her father or mother, or some other close relative. Her facial structure …" He shook his head. "I'll run a modified facial recognition. Look for a percent match. See what turns up. It won't help that she's broken her nose in the past year."

"While you're running that, try this guy, too." Reese brought out his phone and showed Finch the pictures the girl had snapped from the car window. Only one of them was even close to discernable, and it was badly blurred. The subject, a blond-haired man, was not looking toward the camera.

Finch scowled. "I won't get anything from that. I'll run it, but it would take a miracle. Who is he?"

"I don't know. And neither does Julie. She said she'd seen him a couple times before, but she couldn't say where." Reese sent the picture, put his phone away. "Right now, he's the best lead we've got."

"I'll see what I can find. Anything you need?"

"No," Reese answered easily. "I'm fine. I'll just stay here and keep an eye on the children."

"That ought to be fairly easy for a while. They're both exhausted."

"And cranky," Reese added.

Finch nodded ruefully. "And cranky." He got out of the car. Reese slumped a little in the seat, got comfortable. And watched.


	4. Chapter 4

Just over an hour later, Reese heard Julie Essex ask the concierge to secure her a rental car. He promised to take care of it. For what she was paying for her suite, Reese imagined the man would have carried her on his back all over the city if she'd asked him to.

Shortly afterward, the woman walked briskly from the hotel. She wore shorts and a t-shirt and running shoes, carried a bottle of water in one hand. Once she hit the park itself, she began to jog slowly. Reese started his car, but let it idle for the moment. As he'd expected, before she was out of his sightline she dropped onto in the grass a few feet from the sidewalk and began to stretch.

She was stiff at first. Overnight in a small airplane, John knew from experience, would kink up most of the major muscle groups. He would have walked it off a little more. But it was clear that she stretched often; she limbered up quickly, her body responding to long training with the desired response.

Once she warmed up, she was very flexible.

While she stretched, Julie pulled out her cell phone. Reese watched on his own phone. The number she dialed, from memory, not speed-dial, was in the DC area. It rang four times before a cheerful woman answered. "Oracle of Quantico. How the hell are you, girl?"

"Hey, sweetie," Julie answered with equal warmth. "How are you?"

"I'm good. Busy, of course."

"The monsters never stop."

"You got that right. And this week's special is …" the other woman paused. "Never mind, I can't tell you. But it's really gross."

"I don't need to know," Julie assured her. She moved to another stretch position. "Just promise you'll be safe."

"Oh, I never leave the lair. Almost never. Safe and sound. Where are you?"

"Central Park."

"Dude! Come to DC, we'll hang out."

"I thought you were busy chasing monsters."

"Well, we'll catch this one and I'll take some time off."

"Riiiiight," Julie answered. "Why don't you come here? We'll catch a show or ten. Hit the clubs. Stalk boys."

"Make the Big Apple our personal bitch," the woman agreed. "I hear you." And then, "Hang on a minute."

After a pause she returned. "I'm gonna have to go. What'cha need?"

"When you have time," Julie said, "I have this picture of a guy and I need to know if he's anybody."

"Send, send."

Reese glanced at the image on his phone. It was the single half-way decent picture she'd taken from the car.

The woman from Washington growled. "That picture's awful."

"Moving car."

"You should have slowed down. I'll do what I can, but I dunno."

"Give it your best shot. It'll be better than anybody else's in the world."

"Flatterer. Don't you have people of your own for this?"

"Yeah," Julie answered, "but I'm kinda pissed off at them right now."

"I thought you sounded kinda off. You okay?"

"I'm stretching. Going for a run."

"Ughh, why? Is someone chasing you?"

"Sadly, no."

"Ohhhh," the voice from Washington said. "I know that tone. That's the sound of a broken heart."

"No it's not."

"Yes, it is. Spill it, sister. Was he hot?"

"Yes."

"Smart?"

"Yes."

"Got a job?"

"Doctor."

"Good kisser?"

"Yes."

"Good in bed?"

"Probably. Didn't get a chance to find out."

"Why the hell not?"

"Wrong agency," Julie said. "We don't do that."

"Well there's your problem right there. Come to the dark side, sweetie. We have cookies. And condoms."

"I've met your boss. He wouldn't let me sleep with my assignments either."

"No, probably not. You gonna keep him?"

"Can't."

"Why not?"

"Transference. Counter-transference."

"Piffle. Psycho-babble. There's no such thing."

Julie chuckled. "Don't you work in the very hive of criminal psychology there?"

"Yeah, but what do they know? You're clearly hot for the boy. You should keep him."

"Can't," she said again. "I already drove a stake through his heart, anyhow."

"Oh." Her long-distance friend murmured sympathetically. "Sorry, Jules." After a beat, she added, "Sooooo, this transference thing. You can't date him, but it would be okay if you, like, sent his phone number to a close friend, right? I could, uh, watch over him, maybe ease his pain a little?"

Julie laughed out loud. "You are such a bitch sometimes."

"Hey, I'm just sayin', if you can't have him, there is no point in letting a perfectly hot doctor go to waste."

"If he seems lonely," she promised, "I'll send him your way."

"You better. I gotta go. Have a good run. Don't get lost."

"Thanks, sweetie."

Julie tucked her phone into a holder on her shirt and plugged in her headphones. Reese held his own phone, ready to turn down the volume on whatever music she played on her run. She put her ear buds in, but there was no music. Just a decoy, Reese supposed. A polite way to ignore anyone who tried to speak to her. She started to run in earnest.

* * *

"You're not going to follow her on foot, Mr. Reese?" Finch teased gently.

"I'm not sure I could keep up with her," Reese admitted. He took his foot off the brake and let the sedan roll; traffic was heavy enough that he could nearly keep pace with her without seeming to lurk. "What was that, about a six minute mile?"

"Five-fifty-five," Finch answered. "If I'd tried to run that kind of pace I'd have vomited."

"You were a runner, Finch?"

"I was, yes."

Reese thought about that for a moment. Of all the things that Harold Finch had lost when he was injured, he probably didn't consider running very high on the list. But it was likely something that had let Finch be normal, ordinary. If he'd been avid about it, it had been part of his lifestyle. Something that made him feel good, physically and mentally. And it had been taken from him. "I'm sorry, Finch."

The genius did not answer.

At the cross street that dissected the park, their target turned east. Reese navigated through the traffic with some difficulty. Finch was right; he was going to have to leave the car. He glanced down at his leather shoes and his suit pants. He could probably keep her in sight, even if she kept up that blistering pace, but there was no way he was going to do it without attracting attention.

At the east end of the park, near the end of her second under-six-minute mile, Julie Essex stopped at a trash can and threw up.

"Mr. Reese?" Finch asked anxiously, "what is that?"

"Lunch," Reese answered, "and breakfast. Aaaaaand … whatever she ate yesterday."

He watched while the girl took a long swig from her water bottle, rinsed her mouth and spit it out. Then she drank, deeply.

"That shouldn't make me feel better," Finch said, "but it does. Has she stopped running?"

"No." Reese watched her for a moment. She'd turned south, back toward her hotel. "But she's slowed down. I can't tail her this way. Can you get eyes on her?"

"Certainly." There was clicking. "All park cameras online."

"Good." Reese drove back toward the hotel, found a parking spot. He could still see the girl through the trees. She'd settled into a more reasonable pace. She ran easy, relaxed. Obviously she ran a lot.

Past the hotel, she turned north again and ran along the outer perimeter of the park.

"Looks like she's on a circuit," Finch observed.

"Like she doesn't want to be too far from her hotel," Reese agreed.

"Or Will's."

Reese turned his head and looked behind him. The hotel Finch has stashed his nephew in was directly across the street from Julie's running route. Maybe she was hoping to run into him. But that didn't make any sense. Standard protocol was to break clean, cut off all contact with the subject, preferably forever, but definitely for a significant period of time.

Until all the emotions settled out.

Reese waited until she'd made the east turn again to be sure. Then he left the car, strolled into the park, and sat down on a bench. He faced Ingram's hotel. Julie Essex continued to run large circles around him.

Her loop, Reese calculated, was about three miles. He knew Finch could tell him the exact distance, but it didn't matter; call it three. She ran steadily. No one tried to kill her, and except for a pack of four other joggers that ran with her for a time and one small dog that barked ferociously at her, no one excited Reese's attention. Will Ingram did not come out of his hotel.

Reese enjoyed the sun on his face and the cool breeze. The girl ran the circuit four times in just over ninety minutes.

The last half mile she dropped to a walk, cooling off. "I think we're done, Finch." Reese stood and strolled toward her hotel.

"Good run," Finch said. "Will did say she was kind of a health nut. Speaking of whom, excuse me a minute."

Reese crossed the hotel lobby and dropped into an armchair. Julie might see him when she came in, but she wouldn't think anything of it. If she saw him later in the hotel, she'd recognize him as a guest that she'd seen in the lobby.

He heard a phone ring in his earpiece and wondered why Finch had left the call connected. It rang twice, and then Will Ingram said, sleepily, "'lo?"

"Are you ready for dinner?" Finch asked.

"Uhhh …"

"You're still sleeping, aren't you?"

"No. I mean, yes. I was."

"We could reschedule."

Reese looked up. Julie Essex was in the doorway, still pacing slowly, cooling down, with her phone in her hand.

"No, I'm starving. Let me grab a quick shower."

"I'll pick you up in half an hour," Finch offered. "Meet you out front?"

"Great."

The phone went dead. "Mr. Reese?" Finch said.

"I'm here."

"You heard that call."

"Yes."

"I cut you off."

"I heard every word, Harold."

"I know you did."

Reese looked at the girl again. She walked toward the elevator, putting her phone away. "I heard it over Julie's phone," he realized.

"She still has Will's phone tapped," Finch concurred. His voice was tinged with worry. And anger.

She might have forgotten to disconnect, Reese thought, but that was unlikely. She'd run with earphone but no music, and she'd kept Ingram's hotel within easy distance. "Either she's still worried about him …"

"Or she's stalking him," Finch snapped.

"Or both." Reese tumbled the ideas around in his mind. He still didn't think their target wanted Ingram dead. She'd passed on too many chances for that. But stalking him was another matter. He and Finch had seen stalking escalate toward murder before. She'd been following him for nearly a year, and close to him for several weeks. Maybe this was simply her own technique for easing out of the relationship, to return to passive observation until she was comfortable leaving him. Transference cut both ways; she'd been very involved with the young doctor.

And maybe she'd slipped over the thin mental line between transference and obsession.

Maybe she was in danger. Maybe she thought Ingram was in danger. Or maybe she was putting him in danger.

"You know, Finch," he grumbled, "your Machine would be more helpful if it was just a little more specific."

Finch sighed heavily. "I am aware of that shortfall, Mr. Reese. At this moment, I am _abundantly _aware."

Reese shook his head. "It doesn't change anything. We've got eyes and ears on the girl. If she makes a move at Will, we can stop her. If it's something else, we still need to uncover it."

"I am not at all comfortable with the notion of using my nephew as bait," Finch answered tightly.

"I won't let him get hurt," Reese answered. There was a long silence. "Harold?" he prompted.

"I'm here," Finch said. "I know you're right, John. I just …"

He tried to cover the raw pain in his voice, but only partly succeeded. It was the same tone he'd used to talk about Grace. The tone Reese used on those rare occasions when he spoke about Jessica. They both knew what it was to lose someone. The knowledge that it might happen again was suffocating, and all too real. "I know," Reese said. "Harold. I _know_. No one gets to the boy. I promise."

After another long moment, Finch exhaled. "Thank you, John."

* * *

"I'm not really hungry," Will Ingram said morosely.

Finch looked across the table at him. "Half an hour ago you were starving."

"It went away."

Harold simply nodded and ordered for both of them. "And bread right away, please," he added. "They have excellent hearth-baked bread here," he told Will.

"Okay." The boy put his elbow on the table, his head in his hand. "I feel like such an idiot, Uncle Harold. How could I not have seen what she was?"

"You weren't meant to see," Finch answered. With some difficulty, he resisted the urge to make the young man get his elbow off the table. "Ms. Essex makes her living by not letting others see what she really is."

"Essex. Is that her name?"

"It was the name on her badge."

"On her badge," Will moaned. "She has a badge. She probably has a gun, too."

"Perhaps. I don't really know."

"I can't believe I fell for it."

The waiter put a basket of warm bread next to his elbow. Will glanced at it, looked away. But Finch could see the aroma tempt him. He reached out and took a slice for himself. It was tender in the middle, a little chewy at the crust, and so flavorful that he didn't bother with the butter.

"I mean, my dad used to harp at me about it all the time. Do some homework, find out about the girls you're dating. He always thought they were after his money."

"And some of them were," Finch recalled softly.

Will glared at him. Then he mellowed, picked up a piece of bread and tore at it listlessly. "Some of them," he admitted. "But most of them just liked me. I thought. God, I don't know. Maybe none of them really cared about me at all. Maybe he was right, maybe they were all about the money."

"I doubt that, Will." Finch watched with satisfaction as the boy chewed one piece of bread and reached for another. By the time their entrées arrived, he was sure he'd have his appetite back. "And in any case, this one had no interest in your money."

"No. I was just a _job_ to her. An assignment." He sighed heavily. "That makes it worse. I thought she was my girlfriend, and it turns out she was my babysitter. It's like having a crush on your nanny."

Which you also did once, Finch thought, but he didn't see any reason to mention it. "I know you're very disappointed, Will. But I am glad that you're home safely, whatever the circumstances."

The young man mulled through a third piece of bread. "I thought this was the real thing, Uncle Harold. I thought … I thought I was in love with her. And now I never want to see her again."

There was more resignation than heat in his last statement. "The sea is full of an infinite number of fishes, Will," Finch said gently.

"I know." The boy shrugged. "I guess I'm just tired of fishing."

"Then sit on the shore and rest a while," Harold advised. "The sea will call you again soon enough."

Will cocked his head at him, and for a moment looked uncannily like his father. "You can sit there and do that all night, can't you?"

"I can try." Finch smiled at him, but gently. "I know it hurts, Will. But you'll get through this."

The boy put his other elbow on the table and buried his face in his two hands. "I think I'm going to become a monk."

Harold nodded solemnly. "Perhaps you should think about that for a few days."

Will Ingram simply groaned. But when his steak arrived – medium rare, just like Nathan liked them – he ate without protest, much to his uncle's satisfaction.

* * *

"Mr. Reese?" the voice in his ear said.

"How's dinner, Finch?"

"Better than expected. Where are you?"

"At the Mandarin. I'm watching Julie Essex swim laps."

Reese settled deeper into the corner. The girl swam much like she ran, with easy confidence and determination. Her kick wasn't as strong as it should have been; Reese could tell that her legs were tired. But her arms took up the slack readily.

"She's swimming, after that run?" Finch sounded surprised. "Is she training for the Iron Man?"

"Haven't seen any signs of a bike yet, but I wouldn't rule it out." Reese watched as she executed a polished flip-turn against the wall. She rolled over, began a significantly slower backstroke lap. She was getting tired. "She's trying to sleep, Finch."

"Don't sleeping and swimming generally add up to drowning?"

"I'll keep an eye on her," Reese promised.

"Will's back. I'll check in later."

Reese touched his earwig off and shifted his shoulder against the wall. The girl flipped again and resumed her steady freestyle stroke. She was definitely slowing. Five more laps, he thought, and she'd be ready to drop. If she tried for ten, he might very well have to go in after her.

He wouldn't really mind. He knew what she was doing, and he knew why. He'd done it himself.

Kara Stanton had helped him.

* * *

**2006**

_Euskadi Ta Askatasuna_. It was a grand name, Reese supposed, that the Basque separatists had given themselves. He and pretty much everyone in the world had shortened it to ETA. They were terrorists, and whatever their cause, they didn't deserve a grand name.

The intelligence had been shaky. Four ETA members had taken a vacationing American businessman and his family captive, but the suits weren't clear if it was an officially-planned attack or simply a group of guys going freelance in search of ready cash. It didn't matter much to the team on the ground. They were just supposed to free the hostages.

But someone had tipped the terrorists off, and by the time Reese kicked the door open the hostages – the man, his wife, an eight-year old boy and his six-year old sister – were all dead. So were the terrorists. The house the family had rented was more than a hundred years old; the kitchen floor had warped gently, and the blood of the family pooled at the center of the tile.

There was a small stuffed dog at the edge of the pool. It had probably belonged to the little girl, and it had probably been the color of a golden retriever. It was red now. It had wicked up the family's blood.

Dead children always got to Reese. He was aware that Stanton had kept him on the perimeter until the little bodies were covered, and for once he didn't mind her patronizing protection. But the little stuffed dog was still there. And it sliced through his carefully-cultivated mental armor. It reminded him that they were not cases or assignments or clients or numbers. They were _children_. The day before they'd been splashing at the beach, afraid of jellyfish and slimy seaweed. Today they were dead.

The team did what they could and went back to their bunk. Reese paced for a while. Stanton told him to eat something, and he tried. But he couldn't get the dog out of his head. He knew he wouldn't sleep. He scrounged in the closet and found someone else's old running shoes. He had shorts of his own.

"How far are we from the beach?" he asked.

Kara shrugged. "Twenty klicks or so."

"Good. I'll be back."

She said something to his back. He didn't hear the words, and he didn't care. He hit the street and he started to run.

He didn't warm up, didn't stretch. He just ran. When his muscles began to cramp, he slowed down. When the few bites of food he'd taken came up, he vomited. But he didn't stop. He ran.

No identification. No weapon. No phone. No socks, and he could feel the blisters start to form on his feet before he'd gone the first klick. No shirt. Nothing but the shorts and the shoes, his muscles and his lungs and his sweat and running.

After five klicks the endorphins kicked in and he was able to stop seeing the damn little dog in his mind.

Ten, and his lungs burned, his thighs screamed, and the sweat in his eyes all but blinded him. The blisters on his feet swelled and burst and rubbed. It hurt.

He ran.

He was visible and vulnerable, and he knew Stanton would be pissed off about both. He didn't care. He needed to run, and to drive the little dog from his mind. And the children. He would not think about the children. The boy was only eight, the girl was six, and they had been held for ten hours before they were killed. He hoped they'd been killed first, that they hadn't had to watch their parents die. He would never know. However it had gone down, they'd died in fear.

He felt the breeze before he saw the ocean. It tasted like salt. His right calf spasmed; he kept running. The cramp spread up to his thigh, and suddenly he was limping, but he didn't stop. Uphill, faster, and the muscles gave up and relaxed back into the run. He crested the hill, took a very deep breath and ran down toward the ocean.

On the beach, he only slowed long enough to kick the sneakers off. He felt the blistered skin peel away with the shoes. The sand grated against his open wounds. He knew the salt water would hurt worse. He didn't care.

Six and eight, and they had died screaming.

He ran into the surf until it reached his waist, then dove into the next wave. The water was cold enough to make his gasp when he came up. The salt burned his feet and his eyes. He put his head down and began to swim, hard, straight out from the shore.

Somewhere in the swim time became meaningless. And then everything else did. The pain of his small wounds disappeared. The children vanished, the dog, the pool of blood on the ancient floor. There was nothing. Only himself and the ocean. Only the waves and the water and him.

His legs cramped and relaxed, and he ignored them. His arm cramped, and then his shoulder. He kept swimming. And then his abs cramped and doubled him in half and he sank under the water.

It was peaceful and cool and dim. John let himself sink towards the bottom of the ocean. He was far from shore and it was probably a long way down. It didn't matter. He would get there eventually. He relaxed, surrendered to the gentle caress of the water as it pulled him down. In a moment he would run out of air and have to take a deep breath. The salt water would fill his lungs, speed his journey to the sand below.

He would miss Jessica. But there was nothing else.

Jessica, he thought vaguely. And suddenly he could hear her laugh. He could smell the warmth of her skin, feel the tickle of her long hair across his chest.

He blew a little bubbling sigh, straightened, and kicked hard for the surface.

When he finally got there, he rolled onto his back and floated, arms outstretched. He looked at the sky. Felt the waves. Let the air gradually soothe his burning lungs.

It had taken no time to swim out to sea, but it took forever to swim back. His muscles continued to spasm, and he had to stop and float while the cramps worked themselves out. At least the tide was in his favor. He relaxed and let the water carry him. Eventually, he came to shore very close to where he'd entered the water.

He swam until he felt his knees bump sand. Then he stood up and walked out of the water.

Kara Stanton was leaning against the hood of her car. His borrowed shoes were on the sand beside her. She watched him approach without comment, then threw a towel at him. "Feel better?"

"A little."

She shook her head. "Next time you've got a death wish, just let me know. I'll be happy to oblige."

"Thanks."

He got in the car and let her drive him back to work.

* * *

**2012**

Finch stopped his car in the valet zone in front of the hotel again. "Do you want me to keep you company for a while?" he offered. "We could go see a movie or something."

Will Ingram looked at him from the passenger seat. He was half-asleep again. "I'd love to, Uncle Harold, but …"

"But you're exhausted," Harold finished for him, with some satisfaction. He'd managed to get enough carbs and calories in the boy that he ought to sleep for the next twelve hours. A couple of glasses of wine hadn't hurt, either. "I understand completely."

"I don't know what to do."

"Go to bed."

The boy sighed. "I meant about Julie."

"Ah. Well, the answer still applies. Go to bed. You can think about it in the morning."

"Yeah. I guess I can." Will leaned across and hugged him awkwardly. "Thanks for dinner."

"I'm glad you enjoyed it. Call me in the morning."

"I will."

The boy slid out of the car. Finch watched until he was safely inside. Then he found a parking spot down the block and walked back to the park.

John Reese had staked out a bench where he could watch the front of both hotels just by moving his head. Finch sat down next to him, with a reasonable stranger space between them. They did not make eye contact. "How's our girl?" Finch asked.

"Asleep, from the sound of it," Reese answered.

"Finally."

"How's our boy?"

Finch considered his words. "Will continues to be … conflicted."

"Understandable."

"I'm not sure I understand the psychology of this whole relationship," Finch admitted. "I've read several books about the theory of transference, but theory and practice seem to be very different. Of course, this falls into the field of human interaction, so I am at a disadvantage from the start."

Reese shook his head. "You've got to quit calling it that." He glanced over at the other hotel. "I can't tell you the specifics of this case. But I can give you an overview of how it's supposed to work, from an operational standpoint."

"That would be helpful."

"State knew their subject was in imminent danger, and they knew he'd be resistant to any sort of open surveillance or protection. So they needed an operative who could get close and stay close to him. The easiest cover, in this case, was a romantic partner. They had a good profile on him, so everything she did and said could be tailored to keep his attention." Finch frowned, so Reese went into more detail. "Everything she told him about her background was designed to make him like her. Whether she was an only child, whether her parents were living. The foods she liked or hated. The music. She knew countries he'd already traveled to, and she probably dropped in comments about how she'd always wanted to visit there, and then let him tell her all about it. Details like that build up a false sense of connection. As if they were always meant to be together." He paused. "If she'd been with the Agency, she probably would have actually seduced him. Men his age are easy to lead around by their … hormones. But State tends to be a little more squeamish."

"Decorous," Harold countered gently. "Genteel. Will said he couldn't get anywhere with her."

"She let him get far enough, though, that when it hit the fan she could keep him tri-C'd – close, calm, compliant."

"Compliant." Finch shook his head. That word alone would have sent the boy off into another raging tantrum.

"That's the name of the game," Reese said. "What's going on with Will isn't technically transference. He may actually be in love with Julie Mullins, as he knows her. Why wouldn't he be? She's the perfect woman for him – by design."

"But she doesn't really exist," Finch mused. "She's a façade. A created character."

"Exactly. And the danger now is that the imaginary woman he thinks he loves and the real woman who saved his life may get merged together in his mind. That can be a hard combination to let go of. Which is why, if she's any good at her job, Essex will break this off cleanly."

Finch glanced over his shoulder at the woman's hotel. "And how does this work from her side of things?"

Reese considered. "It may help if you know it's also called Florence Nightingale Syndrome. It's similar to when nurses call in love with their patients. In the agent's mind her subject is dependent on them; his life may be literally in her hands. And by design, he adores her. His survival is validation of the agent's skill, of her career choice. Of what she's spent her life doing." He frowned. "When I was with the Agency, we were actively discouraged from becoming emotionally involved with subjects. Ideally they remained just objects. Goals. Numbers—and not in our better good sense of that word. We barely considered them to be human beings. Staying distant and objective was supposed to let us do the things we had to do."

"Did it?" Finch asked.

"Yes," Reese answered immediately. There was ice in his voice. "Yes."

"But that's not how the State Department operates."

"It's how they're _supposed_ to operate. Julie Essex is not typical. She ignores the rule, and they know it. I suppose they let her get away with it because she's very good with the specific class of clients she works with." He smirked a little. "The very rich are used to being genuinely adored."

Finch raised one eyebrow, but didn't take the bait. "You're saying she has special dispensation to fall in love with her clients."

"Looks that way." He started to say something more, then stopped.

"What is it, John?" Finch asked quietly.

Reese hesitated, chose his words carefully. "The running and the swimming. One or the other, that's a good work-out. Both in the same afternoon? That's something else."

"You said she was trying to sleep."

"The times that I've done that …" Reese paused again. "It was when things went wrong, really wrong, and there was no way to fix it. When it was too late." He nodded to himself. "When all I wanted to do is sleep, and I knew I couldn't until I was so physically exhausted that I just dropped. When it was the only way to shut my brain down."

"Is that what she was doing?"

"I'm sure of it. She was burning off a huge load of emotional energy. It's the kind of behavior I would have expected from someone like her if … if the rescue had failed."

"If Will had been killed." The idea made Finch shiver in the warm night.

Reese looked at him. "He's right there, Harold." He gestured toward the hotel. "He's safe and sound. He's asleep. He's fine." He looked toward the other hotel. "But I honestly don't know what's setting off our girl."

Finch felt his heart rate slow under Reese's applied logic. He was so easily fearful where Nathan's son was concerned. Losing him was simply unbearable to consider. For a moment, he let himself consider that Julie Essex might feel the same way. "Could she be actually in love with him?"

"She knows better. Even if she thinks she is, she's smart enough to know she has to disengage. That's why she cut him dead at the airport. She purposely alienated him, to make it easier for both of them. She knows how this works. And she hasn't made any attempt to contact him." He shook his head. "There's something else going on, Finch. I don't like not knowing what it is."

"If she sees the mystery man in the picture as an actual threat to Will, it may be preventing her from a clean disengagement," Finch mused.

"Maybe. She did seem very alarmed by him."

"Or the issue with her parents."

"Or something we haven't seen yet," Reese added. He looked over again. "Consider my customary complaint about your Machine's lack of specificity inserted here."

"Noted," Finch agreed. He brought out his phone, scrolled through some files. "No FRS matches on the man in the cab," he reported. "No surprise there."

"And the girl?"

"I'm running the program with a less-than-perfect match percentage. So far I'm down to just over six thousand matches."

"Well, that certainly narrows it down," Reese said dryly.

"It's less than the eight million we started with," Finch answered. "I'll continue to reduce it." He stood up, but stayed by the bench, looking from one hotel to the other. If things had been different, Will and Julie could have been happily sharing a room and a bed. Instead they were apart, and both miserable. "How do you tell the difference?" he asked. "Between transference and real love?"

"Hindsight," Reese answered immediately. "It's like infatuation. If it's still there in six months, it's probably love. But short of that, there's no way to tell."

"Six months is a very long time to wait when you think you're in love."

"I suppose it is."

Finch sighed. "I'll call you when I have more information."

"Good night, Finch."

* * *

Before Finch had even checked in from the library, Will Ingram's phone rang. The young man answered on the second ring; evidently he hadn't been asleep. "Hey," another young man's voice said, "you up for a game?"

"Ahhhhh … sure," Ingram agreed. "Shoot me the address. I'll have to hit the ATM."

In the park, Reese groaned.

In her hotel room, Julie Essex was more vocal. "For the love of God, Will," she said to herself – and to Reese and Finch – "can't you stay out of trouble for one damn night?"

"Amen, sister," Reese muttered.

He walked back to his car and waited.

Ingram left his hotel in a cab ten minutes later. Essex left hers three minutes after that.

Feeling very much like an unwelcome chaperone, Reese followed both of them.


	5. Chapter 5

Reese stood at the edge of the window in the half-renovated apartment and glanced out. Across the courtyard, one floor down and one window over, a group of men was gathered around a table, playing poker. Will Ingram was among them. They had the window open, and the sounds and smoke of the gathering drifted through the night.

He shifted his gaze without moving. At the back of building, at right angles to where he stood, Julie Essex watched from another empty apartment. She was sitting on the floor, probably, with just her head over the window sill, and she was motionless. It had taken him a while to locate her.

"Mr. Reese?" Finch said quietly in his ear.

"I'm still here, Finch," he answered.

"What's she doing?"

"Just watching." Reese shifted a little, rested his hip on the windowsill. He looked back toward the young doctor. The man across the table from him raked in a bit pot with both hands. "Ingram's not very good at this."

"I know." The keyboard clicked quietly, reassuringly, in the background.

"Ah, Will," Julie murmured to herself, "can't you just throw money at the stock market like the rest of the rich boys?"

Reese nodded to himself. Julie hadn't moved in the hour he'd been watching her, but she did talk to herself occasionally. She had no idea, of course, that both he and Finch were listening to her musings. Sometimes the invasion of someone's privacy bothered him. Tonight, it might give them some valuable insight.

The game went on. There had been beer from the start, but now someone brought out a bottle of bourbon. All the players had a shot.

"Bourbon has never once made your game any better, Will," Julie whispered.

He couldn't hear her, of course, but Ingram waved off a second shot and went back to drinking his beer.

Reese glanced through his camera lens at the game. "He's drawing to an inside straight," he reported to Finch. "Good thing he's got a trust fund."

Finch grunted. "He'll make it."

"Ten bucks says he doesn't."

"You're on."

Reese raised his lens again – just in time to see Ingram fill the straight. "How did you do that, Finch?"

The genius chuckled, but did not answer.

The boy bid the pot up effectively and won back everything he'd earlier.

"They're cheating," Reese said. "Letting him win a few so he'll bet bigger."

"Very possibly," Finch said. "I know I would."

"It's good to know that about you, Finch."

"You still owe me ten dollars."

Reese grinned. He looked back to the girl's window. She wasn't there.

Before he could even curse, he heard the single footstep behind him. "Don't move," Julie said quietly.

Reese started to turn around. From her voice, he knew she was far enough away that he'd need a step, maybe two …

"Don't," she snapped.

He froze, then raised his hands slowly. "On your head," she said. "Lock your fingers." When his hands were up, she moved closer. Reese could tell by her footsteps that she was on her toes. She was anxious, she was almost certainly armed, and she was not comfortable with the gun in her hand. The situation had the potential to end very badly for one or both of them.

Cold steel on his wrist. She pulled his hand down with one hand, then the other. Took the camera lens. "Why do you have handcuffs?" he asked in a conversational tone.

"I'm a very kinky girl," she answered briskly. She got his hands cuffed behind him, but she didn't drop off her toes. She was cautious.

"The kind I won't take home to mother?"

One of her hands roamed over him from behind. The other, Reese was sure, still held her weapon. He wasn't sure where she's gotten a gun, or the cuffs, but her handler had brought her a second bag of gear at the airport. She took his gun, his wallet, his phone. The knife off his ankle. And his own handcuffs. "Why do _you_ have them?"

"Pretty much the same."

Julie grasped the chain that linked his hands and tugged him gently backward. He complied, and she used his cuffs to chain him to the radiator. There was a moment of silence. He guessed she was looking through the wallet. "John Rooney, huh?" Julie said. She finally moved around in front of him, looked him over. "You're not who I thought you were."

"Sorry. You can unchain me now. No hard feelings."

"Yeah. No." She studied him for another moment. Then she said, "Ohhhh."

"Someone's been reading their BOLOs," Reese said, for Finch's benefit.

"I'm on my way," Finch answered briskly.

"Just looking at the pretty pictures, actually," she answered. "But I'm going to read them now, if you'll excuse me a moment." She leaned her hip on the edge of the table where she'd dropped his weapons and brought her phone out.

"Easily the most polite person that's ever taken you captive," Finch observed.

Reese grunted. She was nervous, chatty. Or else she was a born-and-trained diplomat and the chatter was the tool she used to assess the situation. Either way, he was willing to talk. It would give Finch time to reach him.

Although exactly what Finch would do when he got there was unclear.

Julie looked up at him. "Not Rooney. You're the famous John _Reese_." She glanced past him to check on Ingram. Then she went back to surfing on her phone. Reese waited quietly.

Finally she put the phone down. "Why does Mark Snow want you dead?"

Reese cocked his head. "It doesn't say 'dead or alive'?"

"It does, but I know he doesn't mean it."

"You know Mark?" John asked, surprised.

She hesitated. "Yeah."

The quietness of her answer told him something new. "Biblically?" he guessed.

"Yeah."

"You seem so much smarter than that."

"Thank you. I _am_ so much smarter than that. Now. At the time I was young and rich and spoiled and he was about twenty different flavors of unsuitable. He was irresistible."

Reese scowled; of the many words he might have used to describe Snow, 'irresistible' was about the last. "I apologize," he said sincerely.

"For what?"

"For Mark. For the Agency. For my entire gender."

Julie actually smiled. "Thank you. But it wasn't all bad. The sex was fantastic. The head games were a little … overwhelming."

"That's the point of seducing co-eds," Reese told her. "They're easily overwhelmed. And they're too young to know how good the sex is. Or isn't."

"Mmmm. Pretty sure I was old enough to know."

"And then you followed him into the trade."

"No. That was another guy. Also unsuitable, but for entirely different reasons." She shrugged. "You're not answering the question. Why does he want you dead?"

"Because I left the Agency. I'm a loose end. And because he's Mark."

Evidently she knew Snow well enough to know that answer was true. "I'm sorry," she said, "that looks really uncomfortable. Let me get you a chair." She stood and pulled a chair over to him, slid it sideways so he could sit down. He sat; it took the strain off his elbows, and it made him somewhat less intimidating. Despite the hardware, the girl was suitably wary of him. "Better?" she asked.

"Yes. Thank you."

Julie retreated to the table again. "Why are you following my boy?"

"_Her_ boy?" Finch sputtered in his ear. "A better question would be …"

"A better question would be," Reese said over him, "why are _you_ following him?"

"It's considered rude to answer a question with a question, you know."

"And chaining someone you just met to a radiator isn't rude? Why are you following him?"

"Because he's still in danger," Julie answered. "From people like you, apparently. And this guy." She picked up her phone out and held it up in front of him. "Who's this guy?"

It was the blurry picture from the car. "I don't know."

"Why's he following Ingram?"

"I don't know."

"What's Mark Snow's phone number?"

Reese smirked. "It's probably on the BOLO. But you're not going to turn me over to him."

"Why not?"

"Because you know he'll kill me. And you're not that kind of girl."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes." Reese nodded his head toward the phone. "You've seen that guy a couple times. You've seen me once, tonight. How does that add up to Ingram being in danger?"

"I saw you outside his hotel, too. In the park." Julie shrugged. "Lizard brain says he's in trouble."

"And you trust your lizard brain."

"It caught you, didn't it?" She didn't wait for an answer. "One more time. Why are you following him?"

Reese shifted his shoulders, got the cuffs to settle a little lower on his wrists. "I'm not following him. I'm following you."

She thought about this. "Why?"

"Your life's in danger."

"That's right there in the job description."

"It might be work-related," Reese agreed. "It might not be. But someone is planning to kill you."

"How do you know that?"  
"How did you know Will Ingram was in danger?"

She tsk'ed at him. "Rude. Again. We knew Ingram was in danger the minute his father's will was read." She looked out the window, watched the young man again. "Lovely man, Dr. Ingram. Smart, funny, good-hearted. Has all the self-preservation instincts of a gypsy moth at a lantern festival."

"That's very true," Finch agreed in Reese's ear.

"Just filled his second inside straight of the night and doesn't realize the game is rigged." She shook her head. "Why do you think I'm in danger?" she asked again.

Reese shrugged. "Lizard brain?"

"Bullshit."

"I can't tell you."

She leaned back and studied him again. "I have, hmmm, two guns, two knives, a hammer," she looked behind the table, picked up a power tool, "whatever this is, an extension core, and an assortment of two-by-fours. Are you sure you don't want to reconsider that answer?"

"It's a Skilsaw," Reese told her.

"Thank you. And?"

"And you're not that kind of girl." Behind him, someone at the poker table said something about one last hand. He pushed his luck. "What does the lizard brain tell you about me?"

"That you're dangerous as hell," Julie answered immediately. "But also, that if Mark Snow wants you dead, I probably want you alive." She sighed and looked at her phone again. "Of all these people that have wants and warrants out for you, which ones won't kill you on sight?"

Reese considered. "NYPD. FBI. Maybe a couple others. But whoever you give me to, Snow will come and claim me."

He knew she could hear the poker game ending, too. "Then what the hell am I going to do with you?"

"You could let me go," Reese suggested.

"I'm very sure I don't want you behind me."

"I could go in front of you. Help you protect your boy."

"If Mark Snow can't catch or control you, I'm damn sure I can't."

"And yet," Reese said slowly, "you have me handcuffed to a radiator."

She raised one eyebrow at him. "You're telling me you let me catch you."

"I'm telling you I wasn't willing to shoot you to stop you. That's got to be good for something."

"The whole Agency condescending thing. Does it just never wear off?"

Will Ingram managed to lose ever dime he'd brought with him in the last hand.

Reese grinned at her crookedly. "Your boy's leaving, Julie. What's your play?"

"I should probably just shoot you. It'd be quick. Way more merciful than Mark will be."

"Mr. Reese …" Finch worried in his ear. "I'm still several minutes away."

Reese shook his head. "You probably should. But you won't."

"Because I'm not that kind of girl, I know." She looked over his shoulder and nodded thoughtfully. "You have a friend in town? Someone you trust with your life?"

"I do." Reese craned his neck to see the poker table. The men were on their feet, gathering their chips, throwing away the empty beer bottles.

"Can you call him or her with your hands behind your back?"

"Yes."

She dropped the handcuff keys onto the table, picked up his phone and moved to stand in front of him. Even then, Reese could see that she was considering her options. She kept her gun down to her side, but for the first time he thought that she might actually shoot him. It wasn't her nature; he was right about that. But Will Ingram was there, not thirty feet away, and in her view he was vulnerable. People could do very uncharacteristic things of defense of the ones they loved.

The difference between love and counter-transference was, at the moment, completely insignificant to her.

"You keep saying I'm not that kind of girl," Julie said quietly, "and you're right. I'm not. But people can change." Her voice remained soft, almost kind. "If you lay a hand on Will Ingram, you and I are going to find out exactly what kind of girl I _can_ be. Am I clear?"

Reese didn't generally react well to threats, but this one didn't particularly anger him. It helped that she hadn't raised the gun, or her voice. She probably couldn't hurt him much and she knew it. But she would do whatever she could, and he would have to kill her to stop her. She wasn't being malicious. She was simply servicing notice that she would kill – or die – to protect Will Ingram.

He could respect that.

"Clear," he answered, without sarcasm.

Julie leaned past him and put his cell phone in his hand. She looked out the window again. "Damn it, Will, do not get in that car with that man." She put her hand on Reese's shoulder briefly. "Good luck," she said with sincerity. Then she hurried out of the room.

When her footsteps had faded to silence, Reese called, "Finch?"

"Two minutes. Or less."

"East building, third floor, apartment 306. Keep tracking the girl. I'll need to catch up with her."

"Are you sure, Mr. Reese?" Finch's voice had the faintest lilt to it; he was teasing, but very gently. "She seems more than capable of taking care of herself."

"She does, doesn't she?" Reese agreed grudgingly. "Maybe we should be promoting this romance. God knows Ingram needs someone to look out for him."

There was a long pause. "Finch?" Reese prompted. "I was kidding."

"I know," Finch said from the doorway. He limped across to the table, got the keys, and moved to unlock the handcuffs. "But truth is often contained in jest." He pulled the cuffs away and straightened. "He could do worse."

Reese stood up, rubbed his wrists lightly, and re-armed himself. "Let's try not to complicate things, Finch. We don't know who's after her yet."

"True." Finch started back toward the door.

"Still," Reese mused as he followed him out, "I've always been partial to a girl with her own handcuffs."

* * *

**1999**

"You have to talk to him, Uncle Harold. You can make him understand how important this is. I mean, this is my whole life here. This is a huge deal."

Harold regarded the young man calmly. "I don't think it's quite that crucial, Will."

"Every other boy in my class has his own car."

"Every other boy in your class didn't total a car while he still had his learner's permit," Harold pointed out.

"It wasn't my fault. The road was icy."

"And you were driving too fast."

Will looked exasperated. "Whose side are you on, Uncle Harold?"

Harold smiled gently. "What's her name, Will?"

"This isn't about a girl!" the teenager sputtered. "God. You always think you know everything. And what if I told you it was a boy, anyhow? What would you say then?"

"The same thing I'd say about a girl," Harold answered mildly, "only with different pronouns. If he or she is basing his or her decision about dating you on what kind of car you own, he or she is not worth your time."

Will stared at him. Finally, his expression softened. "Susie," he admitted. "Her name's Susie."

"Ahh."

"You really don't care, do you? I mean, if I'd said Sam instead, it wouldn't matter to you."

"Not at all."

"My dad's head would explode."

"Yes." Harold nodded seriously. "And then he would get over it. He loves you, Will." The young man made a face. "And he won't buy you a car because he doesn't want you to die behind the wheel of a car, particularly a car that he bought for you."

"I'd be really careful, Uncle Harold. I know I totaled the Lincoln, but I'm older now. More experienced. I swear …"

"I'll talk to him," Harold finally relented. "But give me some time. And in the meantime, take this." He gave the teen a business card.

"A car service?" Will protested. "I don't want a car service, I want my own car."

"Use the service for now. My treat."

"Uncle Harold …"

"Consider the advantages, Will."

"There are no advantages ..."

"You don't have to buy gas. You don't have to worry about parking. And there are so _many_ things you can do in a car with a young lady when you don't have to keep your eyes on the road."

Will stared at him with his mouth open. Then he laughed. "Uncle Harold …"

"I was your age once, Will."

"Were you really?"

"No," Harold admitted, "I was never seventeen. But that's not the point. Use the car service." He reached into his jacket pocket and brought out a narrow strip of aluminum packets. "And use these."

The teenager blushed until his face was solid red. "Uncle Harold …" he started.

"Please," Harold insisted, unperturbed. "Your father would kill both of us."

Will looked away, but he reached out and took the condoms. "Yeah. He would." He tucked the strip into his jacket. "You'll talk to him? About the car?"

"I'll see what I can do," Harold promised. "But it would help if you stayed out of trouble while I try to convince him."

"I'll try."

"Try hard." Harold gave the young man a brief hug. "Go on. Go call your girl."

As soon as Will was gone, Harold reached for his phone. "Nathan, you need to buy your son a car."

Ingram sounded exasperated. "He came to you?"

"Dad said no. Of course he came to me."

"Harold …"

"He wanted to know if I knew of a good car service."

"He … what?"

"He seems to think that if he doesn't have to keep his hands on the wheel, his dates with Susie can be a lot more interesting."

"Susie," Ingram snorted. "Is that her name?"

"I told him to buy condoms," Harold contributed.

There was a moment of silence. "Damn it, Harold, whose side are you on?"

Harold laughed out loud. "Just trying to help, Nathan."

"Don't help me, Harold. Please. Don't help me."

* * *

**2012**

Finch made his way back to the library. A quick check told him that his facial recognition program still had not identified the man that Julie Essex had taken a picture of. It probably never would; despite all the filtering he could do, the computer simply didn't have enough data points to work with.

He turned his attention to his second search. At a 100% match, the computer search had turned up Julie Essex herself, in various photos, all of which Finch had already found elsewhere. Nothing was more than a year or two old, and nothing led him to her history prior to her marriage. The broken nose, he knew, was impeding the search. If there were photos of her out in the ether, they were from before the break and the computer wasn't recognizing her as the same person, even after adjusting for age.

At an 80% match he turned up far too many close matches. He moved the percentage up slowly, narrowing the field with every search. It ran much faster, of course, once he'd narrowed the field down from eight million.

He worked through percentage matches, and then he worked through fractions of percentages. The number of potential matches came down nicely. And then it stuck stubbornly at 93 and refused to drop any more, until he made the percentage so high that he was back to just their girl again.

Finch scowled at the data. It was wrong, somehow. An anomaly. No one had that many close relatives, that strong a genotype. There shouldn't have been more than about two dozen. Something was wrong with the program. But it was _his_ program, and of course there was nothing wrong with it.

He stood up and walked to the board. Glanced over the picture of Julie Essex, the glowing letters her previous clients had sent to her supervisors. He wondered if Will would ever be un-angry enough to write such a letter. Maybe he should write one himself, Harold thought. But he immediately shied away from any correspondence with the government – from any of his identities – that wasn't absolutely necessary. A year from now, he'd suggest it to Will.

If the girl was still alive.

He was missing something. Something important, and he was beginning to think something obvious.

Finch shook his head and went back to his computer.

* * *

Will Ingram's gambling buddies dropped him off at his hotel without incident. Reese watched him go in; the young man seemed remarkably cheerful, for someone who'd just lost several thousand dollars. Well, it wasn't like he'd miss any meals because of it. As long as Will didn't take it personally, John could think of worse vices.

Reese didn't really mind having to be rescued by Finch. That had happened often enough that it was becoming routine, and though he wasn't keeping score, he'd rescued Finch a lot more often. But having a State Department agent get the drop on him – that stung a little. She was right, in a way; there was a certain condescending viewpoint built into every CIA agent, and he hadn't shed his as much as he'd thought he had. He didn't have any particular grudge against her. But he did have a little ego bruise that needed soothing.

So when Ingram's cheating gambling pals stopped at a light right in front of him, in a classic sky-blue GTO with straight pipes, top down and the radio blaring, he couldn't help himself and he didn't try. He stepped off the curb and pointed his gun at the passenger's head.

The man said, "What the f—"

"Shut up," Reese said, "and give me all your money."

"What?"

"Money. Now. Both of you."

"Screw you, man," the drive said.

"You can drive away," Reese said calmly, "but I guarantee you'll be wearing your friend's brains if you do."

"Give him the money!" the passenger shrieked.

"Listen to your friend," Reese advised.

There was some grumbling, but the driver finally reached into his pocket and handed over a stack of bills.

"Now you," Reese said to the passenger.

"I … I … don't have any."

"You have half. It won't do you any good with a hole in your head."

The man swore, but he gave up the money.

"Thank you, gentlemen." Reese stepped back from the car and put the money in his jacket.

The car squealed through the light, very narrowly avoiding an oncoming car, and vanished.

Reese put his gun away, strolled back toward the hotels, and touched his earwig.

* * *

"Where are you, Mr. Reese?" Finch asked.

"Back in the park," Reese answered. "Ingram's back at his hotel."

"And Miss Essex followed him, I presume."

"Yes." Reese sounded puzzled. "But she's going into the lobby."

"Of _his_ hotel? Why?" Finch wondered.

"I don't know. She didn't make any effort to catch up to Ingram." They both listened through her cell phone while the woman checked in. She requested, and got, a particular room number– the room next to Will's. "She wants to keep a closer watch on him," Reese mused.

"Isn't that dangerous?" Finch replied. "If she's right next door, he's very likely to see her."

"Unless it's not for her."

While he waited, Finch opened the list of the 93 close matches and sorted them alphabetically.

After a moment his partner's voice returned. "She's coming back out, Finch."

"Keep your distance, Mr. Reese. I don't imagine she'll be pleased to see you a second time tonight."

"Probably not. But at least I could give her handcuffs back."

The young woman made a phone call. Finch put a trace on the number the instant she finished dialing. "She's calling a … motorcycle repair shop," he told Reese, puzzled

A gravel-voice man answered on the sixth ring. "Yeah?"

"Hey, Vince. Julie Essex. I'm sorry to wake you."

"No problem. How you been?"

"I'm okay. You still got guys up for a little freelance work?"

"Sure. How many you need?"

"Two at a time. Handguns. Closed tail, twenty-four seven. Probably just for the next day or two."

"Not a problem. Starting when?"

"As soon as you can get here."

"Where's here?"

"Central Park, across from the Mandarin."

"Half an hour."

"Thanks, Vince."

As the call ended, Finch said, "Vincent Mauer. Owner of West Side Cycles. Vietnam veteran. And apparently, freelance security." He adjusted his glasses. "You've frightened the young lady, Mr. Reese."

"I tried to be friendly, Finch. If she's spooked, why's she going private? Why doesn't she just call her handler?"

"She didn't seem very happy with him earlier. And he didn't seem convinced that Will was still in danger."

"She can't tell him that _she's_ being followed without telling him that I'm the one following her," Reese contributed. "She doesn't trust me, but she's not willing to give me up. Complicated girl, Finch."

"Yes."

"She's going to an ATM. Mandarin lobby."

"On it," Finch said. He identified the bank easily; cracking it would take a few minutes. "I tried to track the source of Mr. Kemp's prime rib. It's being sent from a local butcher who, sadly, keeps all his records on butcher paper. But it's paid for with a corporate credit card. The company is called Cambria Electric."

"Is that another State cover?" Reese asked.

"No. It's a whole-owned subsidiary of …" Finch stopped, his eyes drawn to his most active screen. "Mr. Reese, Miss Essex has just withdrawn five thousand dollars from that ATM on a credit card."

Reese whistled. "Got to be a pretty special card to pull that kind of cash."

"It is." He traced it. It was still in the name of Julie Essex. "It's linked to a very low-activity account – with a balance of over a hundred thousand dollars."

"Tough to save that much on a State Department salary."

"Next to impossible, I'd say." Finch stabbed at his keyboard, opened his sorted list of near-matches. Many of the names produced were single hits. But sorted alphabetically, it was easy to see that one surname accounted for more than a third of the images. They were all related.

Finch sat back, feeling deeply satisfied with himself. "Cambria Electric is a whole-owned subsidiary of Carson Avionics."

"Okay," Reese said. "So what?"

"Carson Avionics," Finch repeated. "Affiliated with Carson Oil. Carson Defense. Carson Aerospace." He leaned forward again and swiftly entered a new search.

"And a thousand other Carson enterprises," Reese said. "I know. Do you own them, Finch?"

"No. Well, I own stock in a number of them, but no controlling interests. Those are held by Robert Carson, Junior, mainly, and members of his immediate – and very large – family." The search return came up and he nodded at it. "The youngest of Mr. Carson's fourteen children is named Julie."

Reese got it. "Julie Carson. Julie _Carson_."

"I think we have learned two very important things tonight, Mr. Reese. Ms. Essex is indeed deeply devoted to Will Ingram's well-being. And it's certainly not because she's after his money."

"She's worth as much as he is."

"Potentially, I suppose. Although her father's estate will presumably be spread over a great many heirs. In any case, the young lady is certainly comfortably set for life."

"That opens a whole can of worms, Finch. Or suspects, rather."

"I know." Finch frowned at his monitor. "Although … the Machine alerted on her State Department identity."

"Which she dropped almost as soon as she got her," Reese argued. "I don't know what that means, Finch."

"Nor do I, I'm afraid. Her family name is a very closely-held secret, for obvious reasons."

"The same reasons that they want Ingram to use a false identity. With his own name, anybody looking for a fast buck looks at him as a target."

Finch nodded. "She's actually done exactly what she encouraged Will – through me, as a proxy – to do. Change your name, hide your connections, and you eliminate the restrictions that your family's wealth imposes on you. You can do whatever you want. If anyone knew her real identity, she'd be as vulnerable as he is."

"Obviously someone _does_ know her real identity," Reese countered. "Family members might be aware of her cover identity. Her parents, anyhow. They've been in contact with her handler."

"And desperate to get her home," Finch agreed. "Although that may suggest they're trying to protect her, rather than harm her."

"No," Reese said slowly. "The Carsons have the same financial resources you do."

Finch snorted. "They wish."

"If they had credible evidence that the girl was in danger …"

"... they'd do what I'd do," Finch finished for him. "Put a very skilled team around her to protect her, regardless of her protests."

"Or throw her in a bag and take her home."

"So either they don't know about the threat, or they _are_ the threat."

"Maybe another family member? Someone else who might have access to her identity?

"Possibly," Finch agreed. "Although …" He stopped, clearly aggravated.

"Finch?"

Instead of a reply, Reese heard a tone on his phone. He brought it out and glanced at the picture. It was a group of people, probably a hundred of them, posed on risers. It could have been a class picture, except that the people were of all different ages, from early seventies to newborns. "Family reunion?" he guessed.

"Yes. And that's not all of them."

Reese scanned the picture. There were no blondes in it; the Carsons were uniformly brown haired and brown eyed. "I don't see Julie."

"I don't think she's there. Although I'm sure she's not a natural blonde." Finch sighed. "I don't have time to sort all these people out."

"You need an expert," Reese suggested immediately. "Someone who knows all the secrets of high society families."

"Yes," Finch agreed. "Fortunately, we know one."

* * *

When her freelance security men arrived, Julie Essex showed them a picture of Ingram, of Reese, and of the blond man in the car. "This is the one you're protecting," she explained, in order. "This one is dangerous as hell, but I'm not sure he's after Ingram. If he turns up, just call the police, tell them they have a BOLO on him, and let them handle it. Don't engage him if you can avoid it. And this guy – I don't know who the hell he is, but if he shows, I'd like to talk to him. And I don't care if he's a little banged up when that happens. He's the one that's keeping me awake right now."

She gave them the cash, her phone number, and the door key for the room next to Will's.

Then she went back to her own hotel room. Reese kept watch on her through the candy box camera. Or, rather, he watched her ankles. She put her feet up on the coffee table next to the box and watched bad television for the rest of the night. She might have dozed off, sitting there on the couch, but she didn't go back to bed.

Reese felt vaguely guilty for contributing to her sleepless night. But then, he reflected, he wasn't getting any sleep, either. And he didn't have a comfortable couch to sit on.


	6. Chapter 6

At six the next morning, Julie Essex called room service and ordered breakfast – carb-light, protein-heavy – to be delivered at seven-thirty. Then, as Finch was able to verify from the hotel's security cameras, she went for a long swim.

By eight-fifteen, she was showered, dressed, fed and waiting in the lobby for Kemp. She placed another phone call to the Washington number. "Crack of dawn technical services," a sleepy woman answered.

"Sun's been up for hours," Julie said cheerfully. "You've got to get out of your cave more."

"Fiery ball of death in sky. No like, no like!"

"Catch your monster yet?"

"Just about. They know where to look, anyhow."

"Good luck."

"Thanks." The woman sounded more awake as the conversation went on. "You want to know about your guy in the picture."

"Yes, please."

"I'm sorry, Jules, but I got nothing. I tried every enhancement, pixilation, filter – every trick in my considerable toolbox. Nothing. You got to get me a better picture."

"I figured that."

"Sorry."

"Don't be. I appreciate your trying. I know if you couldn't get it, no one can. Thanks for your time."

"We still on for storming Broadway?"

"You know it. Just tell me when."

Julie disconnected the call. Then she dialed another number.

"Evans," a man snapped.

"Essex," she answered briskly. "Anything new?"

"Kid's still asleep."

"Good. Call me if you need me."

"Will do."

The woman put her phone away and stepped outside the hotel. She stood for a minute with her eyes closed and her face to the sun. Then she looked around slowly, right to left and the back to the right. Reese made sure he slid into the shadow of a tree before her gaze got to him. But she paused right there anyhow, as if she could sense him.

Lizard brain, Reese thought. Instinct. Some people had more than others. This girl had it in spades. And she'd learned to trust it. Will Ingram really did need someone like her beside him. Harold's not-really-nephew had a lot of admirable qualities, as the girl had pointed out, but survival instinct wasn't one of them.

Julie finally looked somewhere else. Reese stayed perfectly still. A few minutes later her handler, Joe Kemp, arrived. She got into his car cheerfully. The friction from the previous day had apparently been forgotten.

Reese wasn't sure what prompted him to follow her. Lizard brain of his own, he supposed. In any case, he didn't argue. He went after them.

* * *

"Thank you for meeting me so early," Finch said. He slid into the booth across the table from Zoe Morgan.

"You're getting to be my favorite customer, Harold," she answered with an easy smile. "Where's your friend?"

"Chasing a young woman around Central Park, I imagine."

"Lucky girl. She should run slow." Zoe brought out her tablet and turned it on. "So you want to talk about the Carson family. You're either going to have to narrow it down or buy me lunch and dinner, too, because if we try to cover all of them we'll be here all day."

Finch smiled gently. "There are quite a lot of them, aren't there? But I'm specifically interested in Julie."

"Ahh, the missing princess. Excellent choice. She's one of my favorites."

"She's missing?"

"Not really. She lives in Europe. Comes home a couple times a year, for private visits, but she hasn't been at a big public event with the family in years. And she hasn't been photographed with them since … here." She scrolled through her pre-loaded photos and slid the tablet over to him. The photo was taken from a distance, in a cemetery; the young lady and everyone else were dressed in black.

Finch zoomed the view in and studied the girl. She was younger and her hair was brunette, but it was definitely their subject. "Whose funeral?"

"The grandmother's. She was a hundred years old, so it wasn't really tragic. But she and Julie were tight." She took the tablet back, scrolled again. Then she scowled and scooted around the booth so she was sitting next to Finch and they could look at the tablet together. The first picture was of an older woman with a tiny infant in her arms. The baby was practically invisible in acres of white lace, clearly a baptismal gown. "This is Angela Smith Carson," Zoe said, pointing to the woman. "She was the matriarch of the clan."

"And baby Julie?"

"Yes." Zoe scrolled through the next few pictures slowly. There were posed family photos and more casual snapshots. In the first there was a brown-eyed toddler holding Angela's hand. In the last there was a smiling teenager in a graduation gown, with her arm around her grandmother's shoulder. "Every single family picture I found, if they're both there, they're joined at the hip."

Finch nodded. He went back to the funeral photo. The people in the cemetery wore various expressions, from bored to sad. But Julie was simply blank, expressionless. And though she was surrounded by family members, she seemed somehow separate from them.

"The grandmother's death. Is that when she became estranged from the family?"

"No. That happened a couple years before, when her father dis-inherited her. She's the only one, by the way, that they've ever cut off from her trust fund. That's why I like her."

Finch sat back, frowned. Of all the members of the Carson family, he thought, leave it to Will to pick the biggest trouble-maker. If she'd been raised wealthy and entitled and then lost her privileges, could that explain her fascination with the young man? Did he represent a chance to get her hooks back into some money – and real money, enough to rub her family's nose in? But he was speculating, getting ahead of himself. "Why was she cut off?"

"For love," Zoe replied, with a deep and sardonic sigh. "And it came within about an hour of being a _huge_ family scandal."

"How so?"

She brought up another picture. Finch had seen it before; it was Corporal Essex, in his military ID photo. "This is the guy she married. His name is Paul Essex. He's a Marine. Was, rather. He's dead."

"And his death is the source of the scandal?" Finch ventured.

"No. The marriage was the source of the scandal. Or, rather, the family's response to it." She hesitated. "You're going to need the back story for this."

"Yes, please. If you have time."

"I have time." She sipped her coffee, sat back. "The original Carson fortune was made by Joseph Carson. Great grandpa. He was a rum-runner during Prohibition, and then he reportedly ran guns. And probably other things. In any case, he made a lot of money, and most of it was dirty.

"Joseph only had one child, a son named Robert. Robert inherited everything, and he used the money to go into the weapons trade during the world wars."

"Which was also very profitable."

"Very," Zoe confirmed. "But Robert decided that money wasn't enough for him. He also wanted respectability. So he married Angela Smith. Angela had family money of her own, but more importantly, she had a line of ancestors that went straight back to Captain John Smith."

Finch raised an eyebrow. "Of the Mayflower?"

"Exactly. Robert was just a rich guy. But his kids …"

"Had social standing." Finch nodded to himself. He's known men like Carson. Many of them.

"Robert and Angela had four children, three boys and a girl. The girl married into money; the boys were all very successful in their own fields. Especially the oldest, Robert Junior, who is the Carson everyone talks about."

"He's Julie's father."

Zoe nodded. "When Senior died, most of his money went into a giant trust fund for current and future grandchildren. Twenty-five millions dollars each. And the only conditions were that none of them could access their share of the trust until they turned twenty-five."

"Their parents were the trustees?" Finch asked.

"Yes. Some of the older kids were hell-raisers. A couple of them blew through the money in a year or so. And there was a lot of drinking, drugs, car crashes – the usual entitled rich kid stuff." She shook her head. "By the time the younger ones started to inherit, things had settled down. The parents seem to have gotten a grip on them. Or at least on keeping them out of the press."

Finch took up the tablet and scrolled through the pictures again. There were multiple newspaper articles about the antics of the various Carson children. It was a miracle none of them had been killed. And Zoe was right: It was all typical entitled rich kid behavior. He and Nathan had tried to keep Will away from it, with varying degrees of success.

"There are twenty-nine grandchildren in that generation," Zoe said. "Fourteen of those are Robert Junior's kids. Julie's the youngest of his, and the youngest of all the grandchildren. There was almost nothing about her growing up." She gestured to the tablet. "She showed up at family events, some charity things, but never by herself and never anything even remotely scandalous. Her older brothers got arrested, got named in paternity suits – Julie didn't do anything notable.

"Then she went off to college. Seven Sisters, naturally. Majored in international studies, with an emphasis on business. Minored in linguistics. Still nothing on anybody's radar. Her senior year, she took an extra-curricular assignment as a language tutor for the military. Teaching guys who are about to be deployed how to talk to the locals in Iraq and Afghanistan."

"And that's where she met Corporal Essex."

"They dated, they fell in love. Julie graduated from college. At her graduation party Essex asked her father for her hand in marriage. Robert bounced him out on his ear."

"What was unacceptable about him?"

"No one's exactly clear about that. But he wasn't rich. He wasn't Catholic. And he wasn't willing to leave the Marines." Zoe shrugged. "Whatever it was, Mom and Dad weren't having him for their baby. They told Julie that if she married him she'd never inherit her chunk of the trust fund."

"And she married him anyhow."

"The next day. And yes, they cut her off."

Finch frowned again. "That's troubling, but surely it doesn't rise to the level of scandalous."

"That part doesn't. But how the family responded was. I don't know if they just didn't expect this level of rebellion from the good girl or if there was more to the story that never surfaced, but they went completely off the rails. Mom, especially – Stephanie. She's a serious control freak. She tried to get the marriage annulled. She accused Essex of kidnapping the girl, of brainwashing her, of statutory rape …"

"Julie was in her twenties then?"

"Twenty-two. None of it stuck. None of it had any merit. They tried to say Julie had stolen a car, but it was in her name. That Essex had stolen items from the mansion. And then they tried to have him thrown out of the Marine Corp. Stephanie even went to Washington, tried to get her senator involved." She paused. "You know that the Carsons make a huge amount of their money from defense contracts, right?"

"I know."

"So you can see how this would go. They sell all these weapons to the boys in uniform, make a fortune on the backs of the troops, but one of those boys isn't good enough for their little girl? It would have been massively ugly." Zoe shook her head. "I wouldn't have touched it. It was a no-win from the gate."

"Especially if the photogenic young lovers had spoken out."

"Exactly."

"But none of this ever got out," Finch said. "How was the situation defused?"

"Grandma Angela stepped in. She'd been away at a senior retreat – that's code for retirement village for old folks – but she came back and met with the kids. Then she met with Robert and his wife, and apparently she dropped the hammer on them, because neither of them ever said another word about it. The charges were dropped and everything went away. End of story."

"Grandmother gave them her blessing," Finch mused.

"Sounds like. Julie and Essex went to live on a base in Germany, and then he was deployed to Afghanistan, where he promptly got himself blown up. Grandma Angela died the next day, here in New York. Julie came home and buried them both, and then she went back to Europe. That was six, seven years ago. And like I said, we haven't seen much of her since."

"She's not precisely estranged from the family," Finch said, "but she's certainly distant."

"Can you blame her?"

"No." He looked at the picture of Essex again. "After her husband died, did Robert restore the trust fund?"

"Not that I ever heard. But it may not matter."

"Twenty-five million dollars may not matter?"

Zoe hesitated. "This part is purely rumor. I haven't been able to verify it, and neither has anyone else."

"Understood."

"Remember that Grandma Angela came from money, too? The rumor is that her entire estate went, or will go, to Julie."

Finch sat back. "And how big is that estate?"

"Big. She was an only child of a family with money, and she never touched a dime of it in probably eighty years. It could be a _very_ big number."

"It certainly could."

"But like I said, that's all rumor."

"If the rumors are true," Finch mused, "would any of the other family … how _many_ of the other family members would be resentful of Julie's good fortune?"

"All of them. The Carsons are massively competitive with each other."

"How many would be resentful enough to try to kill her?"

Zoe blinked at him. "Seriously? You think the Carsons are trying to kill each other?"

"No. I'm just … speculating, at this point."

"Julie Carson is the woman John's chasing around the Park?"

He hesitated. "Yes."

"Huh." She thought for a long moment. "A couple years back, two of her brothers got into financial trouble. The oldest two, Matthew and David. But as far as I know that's been resolved."

"I'll take a look."

"And one of the cousins. Thomas." She shook her head. "But even if they managed to kill her, the money's probably in a trust. There's no guarantee that they'd be able to get their hands on it, unless they're named as Julie's successors." She thought further. "You need to get a look at Angela's will."

"I do," Finch realized. "And I'll look into the boys. Thank you, Miss Morgan. You're been extremely helpful, as always"

As he moved to stand up, she put her hand firmly on his forearm. "You're going to tell me what's going on, right?"

It was a fair question, Finch reflected. It just wasn't one that he could answer. "At the moment, we're still trying to sort that out."

"When you've sorted it," she insisted. "These are power players, Harold. If there's information to be had, you owe it to me."

We saved your life, Finch thought. Isn't that payment enough? But he knew it wasn't, in her mind. Zoe was only doing what Zoe did; he couldn't blame her for that. "When the situation is resolved," he said, "I'll tell you everything that I'm at liberty to tell you."

"Promise?"

"I promise."

She released his arm. "Nice talking to you, Harold. I hope we get together again soon."

* * *

Joe Kemp took his agent to an unremarkable office building. Reese watched them go inside, but he didn't follow. There was too much chance of being seen by Julie, or by some other sharp-eyed civil servant who dutifully reviewed their federal BOLOs. Besides, he could hear every word she said. It was not exciting.

Kemp said he hadn't gotten anything from her phone picture of the blond man. From his tone, Reese doubted that he'd even tried. Julie didn't sound surprised.

Once she was settled in, Reese got a small duffle bag out of the trunk of his car and found a coffee shop. He ordered a big breakfast, then went to the men's room, did a quick sink wash, and changed his clothes. By the time he got back to the table his breakfast was ready.

"More coffee?" the waitress offered.

"Please, and keep it coming."

She smiled at him. "Long night?"

"And likely to be a long day."

"I'll put a fresh pot on for you."

Reese heard Julie's phone ring. After the second ring, the call went to voicemail. Her voice announced simply, "It's Julie. Can't answer. Leave a message."

She was busy with paperwork and probably ignoring the call. Or else she'd checked her caller ID. The person calling was Will Ingram. The young man sighed heavily. "Hey, Jules, it's, um … it's Will. Will Ingram. I … look, I was a total jerk yesterday, and I'm really sorry and, um … if you're still in town, I'd really like to apologize in person. Just …." He sighed again, floundering. "Give me a call, okay? Please?"

The call went dead.

Reese rubbed his eyes. He'd been expecting something like this, actually. Ingram didn't seem like he was capable of sustaining anger for very long. It would have been better if he had. He hoped Julie had the sense to ignore the call; if she spoke to Will now, it only made things worse for both of them.

It was hard enough trying to catch bad guys and save lives with only the sketchy hints Finch's Machine provided about them. He was pretty sure dispensing romantic advice to field operatives and their targets was not in his job description.

Just as he finished his last bite of toast, and his fifth cup of coffee, his phone beeped. He answered the handset, gestured for his check. "Hey, Finch. How was breakfast with Zoe?"

"Miss Morgan was extremely knowledgeable, as always. There is an unconfirmed but highly plausible rumor that Ms. Essex either has or will inherit a significant amount of money from her grandmother."

"Significant even for a Carson?"

"Apparently." There was familiar keyboard noise in the background; evidently Finch was back at the library. "Aside from the large account we located last night, I didn't find excessive funds in any account linked to her name, so I must assume it's in a trust somewhere."

"State would make her put it in a blind trust," Reese provided. He glanced at the check the waitress slid to him, left enough cash for a fifty percent tip just because she'd been quick with the coffee, and went out to the street.

"This could get very complicated, financially," Finch muttered, mostly to himself. "If she's already inherited, then whoever is named in Julie's will is an obvious suspect. If she hasn't, or if there are additional contingencies in the grandmother's will, then it could be someone quite different."

"We need to know what's in both wills, Finch."

"Obviously." There was another spate of typing. Reese waited, looked casually up and down the street. Nothing incurred his focus. "There's a digital copy of Ms. Essex's will is on file with the State Department, in her personnel file. It's secured, of course, but … ahh."

"You scare me sometimes, Finch."

"After all this time?" Finch sounded vaguely pleased about that. "Interesting. The will was updated six months ago. It's remarkable straightforward. She leaves a hundred thousand dollars to her handler, Mr. Kemp. The remainder of her assets is to be shared equally among four charities. Including Doctors Without Borders."

"Kemp's wife had cancer," Reese mused. "They probably have a ton of medical bills. What about Grandma's will?"

There's nothing online, or at least nothing helpful. But I do have means to access the original document."

"What sort of means?"

He could hear the smile in Finch's voice. "The sort of means I excel in, Mr. Reese."

"Something devious and under a false identity?"

"Exactly. I'll let you know what I find out." He sighed; it sounded like he was moving. "But first, I have to make a brief stop."

Reese had a pretty good guess where he headed. "Good luck with that."

"Thank you so much."

* * *

Finch rapped firmly on the door. There was a bit of scrambling behind it, a muttered, "Hang on, hang on." Then Will opened the door, without even asking who was there. He was pulling down his shirt with one hand, running the other through his hair in a speedy attempt to look put together. It wasn't at all successful.

His face fell when he saw Harold. "I … uh …"

"I'm not who you were expecting," Finch said gently.

"No, I … yes. I mean …" The boy shook his head, stepped back and gestured. "Come on in."

Harold went in and closed the door behind him. "I woke you. I'm sorry."

"No, I was up. I just … I was …" Will rubbed his eyes, shook his head again as if to clear the cobwebs. "Let me try that one more time." He straightened up. "Good morning, Uncle Harold. It's nice to see you."

Harold chuckled. "Much better. But I didn't mean to bother you."

"Wasn't doing anything. Nice suit."

"I'm on my way to a business meeting," Finch confirmed. He was wearing his black suit, the power suit, for a reason. "But I had a little time. I thought I'd bring you some breakfast." He held out a white paper bag in one hand, a cup of coffee in the other.

"How come every time I see you lately you try to feed me?"

Finch put the parcels on the side table. "Give me your hand. Either one."

Frowning, Will held out a hand. Finch took it in one of his, held up his other hand with his fingers splayed. "I have stubby fingers, Will. I shouldn't be able to do this." He wrapped his free hand around the boy's wrist. His thumb and pinky finger overlapped so much that his thumbnail was completely covered. "Every time you go overseas you come home skin and bones. So I try to fatten you up while I have the chance."

Will smiled ruefully. "Fair enough." He sat on the couch, opened the bag. "It's not like that's going to be a problem anymore, anyhow. They're not going to let me leave the country. It's too _dangerous_."

"There are lots of places in this country that need doctors, Will."

The boy shrugged.

"Have you even looked? I saw some of these free health clinics on the news last year where there were thousands of people lined up for care."

"It just pisses me off that they think they can just tell me where I can and can't go."

He was, as Julie had predicted, about to figure out how readily his wealth could circumvent that obstacle. Finch wanted to stall him, at least for a while. "Are you angry about the government now, and not the woman?"

Will glared at him. Then he looked away. "Tell me the truth, Uncle Harold. Was I as big of a jerk as I think I was yesterday? To Julie?"

"Ahhhh … yes. I'm afraid you were."

"Damn."

"But she didn't take it personally," Finch continued. "She understood your reasons, and she considered it a hazard of the job." The boy had stopped unpacking the breakfast, so he did it for him.

"She said that?"

"She said … that you needed to hate her for a while. That that was the best way for you to get past this whole incident."

Will was silent for a moment. "She thinks I hate her?"

Finch looked up. There was so much pain in the boy's voice, and in his face, that he immediately regretted his choice of words. "Will …"

"She saved my life, Uncle Harold. If she hadn't been there I would have …" He shook his head. "I would have done something stupid. I probably would have gotten myself shot. And she was …" He looked up, not at Harold but at a point over his shoulder. "I think I love her. I'm sure I love her." And then, "I've got to find her."

"Finch," Reese said in his ear, "head him off. Absolutely nothing good will come from their seeing each other again."

Harold nodded, as if to himself. "Will, listen to me. You've have a great deal of emotional upheaval this week. You were kidnapped and held at gunpoint. By your own admission you nearly died. Don't you think it's possible that what you feel for this woman is … something other than what you think it is?"

Will looked at him. "You think I don't know what I'm feeling?"

"I think," Finch answered carefully, "that you must have learned about transference somewhere in medical school."

"Transference. That's what you think this is."

"I think it's a possibility."

The young man's voice started to rise. "I'm not a little kid any more, Uncle Harold. I'm old enough to know what I feel. And this is not transference. I love her!"

"Will, you're shouting."

"No, I'm not!" Will popped to his feet. Then he looked around. "Fine. I'm shouting." He sat back down.

"Will," Harold said soothingly, "I can't know what you're feeling. But I know what I've seen. Two days ago you were captured by gunmen, and you couldn't wait for me to meet this woman. Yesterday you never wanted to see her again. Today you love her. Don't you think you should at least see how you feel tomorrow before you take any action?"

The boy looked sideways at the floor for a long while. "I tried to call her," he finally said. "She won't even answer my calls."

Finch nodded to himself. "Will, next week, or the week after, Julie Essex will be on a new assignment. Maybe halfway around the world, maybe following someone new – I don't know. But she will move on, because she has to. And you need to do the same."

She'll move on, Finch thought, if we manage to find out who's trying to kill her and stop it. He shook his head, shook the thought away. They'd find a way to save her.

The boy looked up at him bleakly. "You're trying to tell me that she doesn't feel the same way."

"That may be a real possibility, yes. I'm sorry."

"I was just an assignment to her."

Finch leaned forward. "She seemed to genuinely like you, Will, and to respect the work you were doing. That's why she was there, so that you could continue that work. But that doesn't mean she loved you. In the end … it was her job."

Will took the lid off the coffee and took a long drink. "I still love her," he said bleakly.

Finch's own heart ached for the boy. He wanted to comfort him, to tell him that he understood, that of course Will should go after her. But he could hear Reese's disapproval in his silence, and he knew his partner was right. "Will, you don't know her."

"I know …"

"You know who she pretended to be. But everything about that persona was calculated to get close to you. She knew what kind of music you liked, what kind of food – everything about you. And she used it."

"But …" The young man sat back, slumped against the couch cushions. "I don't know, Uncle Harold. I was so sure … if you could have seen her … the way she was with those babies …" He sat up suddenly. "That's it. The babies."

"The babies?"

"I've been trying to figure out … all morning, I've been thinking about her, about what it was that I fell for. Trying to figure out if that part was real? And it was the babies." He glanced at Harold, launched into an explanation. "Right after Julie started at the clinic, this woman came in with twin girls, five months old. They both had raging ear infections. We put them on antibiotics, but until they kicked in, every time she put one of them down to nurse the other one, the first one would just scream. They were miserable. The mother wasn't more than fifteen or sixteen herself, and none of her family came with her because the babies were girls … and she would just cry. Try to nurse one baby and just sob for the other one being so miserable.

"All medical personnel had their hands full with other patients. But Julie … she was our clerk, she kept the charts and the records and things like that. Coordinated. But she heard this baby and she just went and picked her up. And kept her. Carried her around, did her charts with one hand and just … and when the first baby was fed, she'd go swap them and carry the other baby around. I mean, there was nothing the babies needed medically except their meds, they just wanted to be upright to keep the pressure off their eardrums. And Julie sat up all night, slept in a chair with one of them over her shoulder. She carried those babies around for four days."

"That was very lovely on her part, I'm sure, but …"

"Don't you get it, Uncle Harold? That wasn't about me. That wasn't about getting close to me or protecting me. That was _Julie_. That was Julie being kind, being useful. Helping that woman and her babies just because they needed someone to help them. What's that old quote, about how you treat people who can never do anything for you? That's what I know about her. The real her. That's who she is. That's who I fell in love with."

"Will …"

"And she thinks I hate her. And I don't have any way to tell her that I don't." The boy was absolutely heartbroken.

"Be careful, Finch," Reese said quietly in his ear.

"Write her a letter," Harold said suddenly.

Will blinked at him. "What, like an e-mail?"

"Yes, like an e-mail, but with actual ink on actual paper. Write her a letter and send it care of the State Department. Wherever she is, I'm sure they'll get to her."

"I don't know what to say."

"Careful, careful," Reese repeated. "This needs to be an end, Harold."

"Be careful," Finch repeated. "Assume that someone other than her may read the letter. But tell her that you're sorry, tell her that you understand why she did what she did. Tell her … tell her thank you."

Will stared at him. "I don't know if I can."

"The beauty of pen and paper," Finch promised him, "is that you can always tear it up and start over. As often as you like."

"I wish real life was like that," the boy said.

Harold nodded. "I'm with you there, believe me."

"If I'm never going to see her again …" his voice trailed off as he considered that very real possibility, "…I just wish it hadn't ended the way it did. With me throwing a stupid tantrum in an airport."

"Then let it end with this letter," Finch said. "She'll understand, believe me."

The young man thought about it for a long moment. "If I get stuck, will you help me?"

"I don't really know how much help I'll be. I can proofread for you."

Will almost laughed. "I think I might need more help than that."

"I'll try." Finch glanced at his watch and stood up. "But right now I have to go. Eat your breakfast. Maybe it will give you some inspiration."

"I don't know how I'd work eggs into this letter," Will answered. He got up and walked him to the door.

"Maybe something about how you would have gotten yourself scrambled without her?"

"Or how I would have been toast." Will shook his head, but he was half-smiling. He threw his arms around Harold. "Thank you, Uncle Harold. I can't say I really feel better, but … maybe a little."

"Give yourself some time, Will," Harold told him. "You've been through an awful lot." He gave him a final squeeze. "Now, seriously, go eat something."

The boy gave an exasperated sigh. "Yes, Uncle Harold," he said dutifully.

* * *

"Nicely done, Finch," Reese said sincerely.

"You can congratulate me if he actually sticks to letter-writing," Finch grumbled. "The boy's mood is as changeable as the wind."

"Has he always been like that?"

"Yes. Anything new on our girl?"

"Still at the office."

"I'm going to check on the will. I'll be in touch."

Next to the coffee shop there was a church. Reese patted his jacket, felt the large stack of bills he'd taken from Will Ingram's alleged friends. He hadn't had any particular plans for the money; Ingram certainly didn't need it back. He strolled into the church. As he'd hoped, there was a poor box – that probably wasn't the politically correct term any more – just inside the doorway. He used his body to cover his movements and began to shove the bills through the narrow slot in the top.

The box was completely stuffed by the time he finished. With a small grin, Reese went back to the street.

The blond man from the car was standing ten feet in front of him.

John did not react outwardly. He looked at his phone, pretended to be scrolling through his e-mails, and shot six pictures as quickly as he could. He wasn't sure it was the same man, of course. It could have just been a blond man on the street. But he looked right, felt right. Lizard brain, Reese thought.

The man was intently watching the front of the office building where Julie Essex was doing her paperwork. He was also talking to someone on his phone.

Reese moved down to the street, so that he was almost next to the man. The man put his phone away and moved off. John was able to get a few more pictures of him. He gave him a head start and then tailed him.

The blond man walked two blocks to the south. He didn't hurry, or give any indication that he knew he was being followed. He walked into another office building. Reese counted to ten and then followed.

The man was gone.

Reese bought a newspaper from the stand and took a long slow look around the lobby. The man had vanished. He might have gotten on an elevator, but there were so many people coming and going that it was impossible to tell what floor he'd gone to. And, too, John wasn't absolutely certain he was the right man.

If he was the right man, though, he would come back for the girl.

Reese buzzed for Finch, but got no answer. He sent the photos anyhow.

Uneasily, with his own lizard brain on high alert, Reese went back outside to watch for the girl.


	7. Chapter 7

Finch stepped off the elevator onto very plush carpeting, deep gray, and looked around with approval. The lobby of the law firm was elegant, understated. It had also, he'd learned from the security console downstairs, taken over the top five floors of the building.

Bittern, Cardinal and Smyth was doing very well indeed.

He made his way to the reception desk, leaning heavily on his walking stick. The woman there was young and highly decorative. She looked up and gave him just the right amount of smile, as discrete and elegant as the lobby. "May I help you?"

"I wonder," Harold said, "if Mr. Cardinal might be available."

She blinked, just once. "I'm sorry, do you have an appointment?"

"No."

She pursed her elegant lips. "I can see if he's available." She clearly found it unlikely, but she was far too polite to say so. "Your name, sir?"

"Harold Bittern."

"Mr. …" She looked up sharply, her perfect poise slipping for just an instant. Harold gave her his best innocuous smile. "Oh. Just … one moment, please." She picked up her handset and dialed an extension quickly. "Mr. Bittern is here to see Mr. Cardinal, if he's available."

She listened, nodded. "Thank you." As she put down the phone, she slid smoothly to her feet. "Mr. Cardinal will be right out," she announced. "Can I offer you some coffee?"

"No, thank you." Finch leaned one arm on her polished glass counter and looked around. "The firm's grown since I was last here."

The woman nodded, still wide-eyed. "Yes. We just took over an additional floor of offices last month."

"That's good to hear. I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name."

"I'm sorry. I'm Dana. Dana Markham." She half-raised her hand to offer it, then lowered it again, uncertainly. "I've, um, I've been with the firm just over two years now."

Finch gave her the same reassuring smile. "And how do you like it?"

"Oh, I like it very much. Sir."

"I'm glad." He nodded. "It's important that you like what you do. Otherwise, life is just putting in time."

She blinked again, uncertain how to respond. Fortunately one of the doors behind her clicked and opened, and then a man ten years older than Finch hurried out. He swerved around her counter and threw his arms around Finch. "Harold! How the hell are you?"

"I'm well, Henry. And you?"

Dana Markham settled behind her fastidious counter again. From her expression, neither hugging nor swearing was welcome in her sanctum. But she was far too prim to correct two of firm's senior partners.

"You didn't tell me you were in town. What's it been, five years? How's retirement treating you?"

"Rather too well, I'm afraid," Finch admitted. He gestured to his leg with his stick. "Jet skis were meant for younger men."

Cardinal looked him over. "Is it serious?"

"Serious enough. That's why I'm in town, to consult a specialist. The islands are lovely, but their medical resources …"

"Oh, I'm sure. Come in, come in. Have you seen the new offices? We just expended. Again."

"Miss Markham told me."

They walked down a quiet hallway toward Cardinal's corner office. "You want some coffee? No, not coffee. Tea. I'll get you some tea."

"No, no," Harold said. "I really can't stay long. I have an doctor's appointment. But I wanted to stop by and say hello. And also," he adjusted his glasses, "I wanted to have a quick look at an old client file."

"Sure. Which one?"

"Angela Smith Carson."

Cardinal looked at him. Then he laughed broadly. "Harold, you old dog. Come in here like it's a casual visit and drop a name like that. I might have known you were keeping an eye on that one. But trust me, we've got it under control.

Finch nodded to himself. He hated to guess about things – but he had to admit, it was vastly satisfying when a guess turned out to be correct. "Old habits, Henry. She was a very good client."

"She was a pain in the ass. But she paid good money for the privilege. And of course the rest of the family still is." Cardinal touched his arm, steered him down another hallway. "I've got Griffin working on it personally. Have you met Griff? You haven't, have you?"

"Griffin Smyth? I haven't seen him since he was this high." Finch waved one hand over the floor at waist level.

"You'll like him. Smart as a whip, that one. Just like his dad." He stopped, tapped on a door, pushed it open without hesitation. "Griff, you in here?"

The young man behind the desk had his jacket off, his tie loose, and his sleeves rolled up. He had three neat piles of folders in front of him, a stack of papers at the center of his desk. The very picture of a junior partner working extremely hard. He practically jumped to his feet when he saw Cardinal. "Mr. Cardinal. Good morning."

"Griff, do you remember Harold Bittern?"

The young man gave a manly version of Miss Markham's double-take. "Mr. Bittern." He came around the desk, extended his hand. "I had no idea you were back in town."

"Just a temporary visit, I'm afraid," Harold answered. The young man had a good handshake, just long enough. "I've had a bit of a boating accident that needs repair."

"He wants to get his eyes on the Carson files," Cardinal said without preamble.

The young man paled just a little. "It's all here," he said, gesturing to his desk. "Everything's ready to go. The transfer takes place at noon tomorrow, as designated in Mrs. Carson's will."

"And we have a good address to get the papers to Mrs. Essex?" Cardinal asked.

"Actually," Smyth said, "she called this morning, and she's in town. She'll be able to attend the transfer in person."

"Good. That makes things simpler."

"Do you have the actual will here?" Finch asked.

The young man laid his hands on it immediately and passed it over. Harold glanced through it, trying to look only professionally interested. It was indeed Angela Smith Carson's entire fortune, and it was all going to Julie Carson Essex. There were no specific numbers, of course, and no list of assets. The will simply stated 'all'. He skimmed down to the details of the transfer. "Why did she decide the girl had to be thirty?" he wondered aloud.

Cardinal snorted. "After the way the other kids acted at twenty-five? I've surprised she didn't decide she had to be _fifty_."

"We've got a copy of her birth certificate," Smyth said, eagerly producing it. "Not that there's any doubt about her age, but I wanted to be sure to dot the i's and cross the t's."

"She had access to the interest and dividends immediately," Cardinal added. "She hasn't pulled out much of it, though."

Finch nodded. He flipped through the other folder. Julie's birth certificate. Angela's death certificate. A dozen other forms. He glanced up. Young Smyth was watching him anxiously. "I think everything's in order, sir."

"I'm sure it is," Harold said reassuringly. "I'm just … overcautious, I suppose." He went back to the will, ran his finger over the document. "This was typed?"

"Mrs. Carson didn't believe in computers," Cardinal answered. "She wanted it typed with carbon paper. We have to borrow a typewriter from a prop shop. Didn't even have one in storage. Stubborn old woman."

Harold smiled. "The technological advances she must have seen in her lifetime. I can understand why she was suspicious." He put the document down. He was still missing something. "Are the other family members aware of the will?"

Smyth blanched a little. "The older family members are. Mrs. Carson's children. The grandchildren – I don't know."

"No one's going to challenge the will," Cardinal said firmly. "They wouldn't dare. They're afraid Grandma Angela would rise from her grave and smite them."

"And also," Smyth said, recovering his composure, "when she made this will, she brought two physicians and a psychiatrist with her. She was definitely of sound mind. I have their certifications here …"

He reached for them, but Finch waved him off. "I believe you. I'm just trying to think of any possible impediments."

"Robert's put together a team of accountants," Cardinal said. "They're going to take a look at the trust as soon as it's turned over, recommend changes as needed."

There, Finch thought. That's it. "It will be an open trust?"

"Only for ninety days," Smyth said. He grabbed a folder off the third stack. "We've set a revocable trust in Mrs. Essex's name. We'll transfer the funds from Mrs. Carson's trust tomorrow. Mrs. Essex will be acting as her own trustee, but as Mr. Cardinal said, her father's accounting team will be working with it. After ninety days, if there are no major issues, it will be converted back into a blind trust. That trustee will be determined later, but Mr. Carson has several recommendations."

"And the State Department doesn't object to the open trust interval?"

"We got them to sign off on it," Smyth answered. He produced yet another document. "They're aware of the potential for conflict of interest and will limit Mrs. Essex's assignments accordingly. But given the nature of her work, they don't anticipate any problems. Of course, they'll need to approve the trustee of the blind trust, but we can handle that going forward. The mechanics are all in place."

Finch took the letter and studied it. It had been signed off by W. Waldman. He was much more important than a field supervisor.

Joseph Kemp had been copied on the document.

He gave the letter back. "It does look as if you've covered everything very nicely, Mr. Smyth. Well done."

The young man beamed with pleasure. "Thank you, Mr. Bittern."

Finch glanced at his watch. "Well. I must be off to meet with the bone saw men." He shook Smyth's hand again. "A great pleasure to meet you again, young man. You've done an excellent job with this." He turned back to Cardinal. "Henry. Good to see you."

"And you, old man. Next time come when you're not so banged up. We'll go to lunch."

"I'll look forward to it."

On his way out, Finch gave the decorous Miss Markham a wink. It should have flustered her. Instead, she winked back.

Blushing, Finch hurried out.

* * *

Just before noon, Kemp and Essex left the office building. The handler offered to buy her lunch, but Julie declined, claiming that she wanted to get a run in before she ate. Reese raised an eyebrow at this announcement; she'd already been for a long swim that morning, and she'd worked out hard the day before. Maybe Finch was right and she actually was training for a triathlon.

Ingram had called her phone three more times, but hadn't left any more messages. She'd listened to his first message, but hadn't called him back.

Kemp dropped the girl off across the street from her hotel. Reese kept his own car back a couple blocks. She waited until Kemp drove off, then walked down to the corner and crossed at the light.

From the other side of the intersection, Reese saw a car speeding toward her. It was black, four doors, unremarkable – and clearly aiming for her as she stepped into the crosswalk. He was too far away to do anything about it. Cursing, Reese leaned on his horn. It was a risk. He might distract her at the wrong second, cause her to look and jump the wrong way. She did look toward him. But she also stepped back onto the curb. Instinct, Reese thought gratefully. Faced with an unknown danger, retreat to safer ground until you can determine what it is.

The car ran the light, swung around the corner at about fifty miles an hour, and kept going.

Julie shook it off like it was nothing. Maybe it was; New York drivers were widely known for their disregard for pedestrian safety. She looked both ways again and crossed the street safely.

Reese sat back hard, both hands tight on the steering wheel. That might have been an attempted hit. It might have been a casual traffic encounter. The only thing he was sure of was that the driver of the black sedan had had dark hair. It was not the blond man they seemed to be pursuing.

He tapped at his phone again. There was no answer. "Finch, where are you?" he muttered.

He found a mostly-legal parking space and strode toward the Mandarin Hotel.

Julie stopped outside the door and made another call. This time the voice from the night before answered. "Vince."

"It's Julie. How's our boy?"

"Still in his room. A guy came to see him a while ago. Looked like he brought him breakfast. We checked on the boy after. He was fine."

"What'd the visitor look like?"

"A little older, short, glasses, bad limp."

Julie nodded. "That's his uncle. Sorta uncle. He's okay. No threat to Ingram."

"Doesn't look like he's much of a threat to anybody, if you ask me."

"Not all threats are physical, Vince."

"I guess."

"No sign of the blond guy?"

"No. But that picture's not worth a shit, you know."

"I know. Do the best you can. Give me a yell."

"Will do."

John was still a block away when the doorman of the hotel opened the door for Julie. She went inside, but before he even closed the door behind her, she was out again, and running, hard, away from him.

Reese froze, looking for the threat. It wasn't hard to find. Three young men came out of the hotel just behind her and gave chase. They'd clearly been waiting in the lobby. It was a clumsy and obvious trap, but she'd walked right into it.

It could have been simple. If she'd turned left when she came out the door, she would have run right into Reese's arms. But she'd turned right, and he was a block behind all of them. Reese began to run. He already knew he couldn't catch the girl over a short distance; she was a sprinter. But there was a good chance the men couldn't keep up with her either. And he might be able to catch _them_.

The girl turned south, and he changed direction, ducked into an alley that would cut the distance – if she kept going the same way. She did; he saw her cross the mouth of the alley. But he couldn't get there fast enough to cut off the men that were chasing her. All four of them were running at top speed, but Reese began to sense there was something odd about the pursuit.

For one thing, no one had any guns visible.

It was hard to run with a gun in your hand; common practice was to run to where you were going, then stop and draw your weapon. But the young men were in polo shirts and khaki shorts, and none of them had a weapon in evidence.

Julie sprinted into an alley, and as the boys entered behind her she grabbed the top of a fence and flung herself over. They all followed. Reese was gaining on them. He was barely fifteen seconds behind them on the fence.

The girl vaulted onto a low wall, kicked off a corner and changed direction sharply. She swung over a railing into a construction zone, dodged a bulldozer, leapt across an open hole in the road, and then hurdled an orange barrel on her way out.

The young men continued to follow. Reese swerved around the barrels and avoided the site. He actually gained a little distance going the long way around.

And then, of course, his phone chirped.

He slapped at his earwig as he cut across the street. "Busy now, Finch!" The distance was down to ten seconds. The girl swerved unexpectedly, slid over the hood of a car, ran up the stairs to the front door of a building and them jumped off the other side of the stoop, breaking her fall by hanging on the rail for an instant before she dropped. The first boy lost his footing trying to make the curve and slipped to the ground. His companions jumped over him and continued the pursuit.

"What in the world are you doing?" Finch wondered calmly in his ear.

"Running. Again."

Julie caught another railing, swung her legs over. Sprinted up the sidewalk, dodging pedestrians. Jumped over a dog's lease, grabbed a post at the corner and flung herself in a new direction. Sprinted down three more blocks.

"Mr. Reese, do not shoot any of those men," Finch said helpfully.

"I'll do my best," Reese promised. The girl had opened some room between herself and her pursuers with her broken-field running, but Reese's leather-soled shoes weren't helping him gain on them. He needed to find a way to cut the girl off, but she changed direction so often that he couldn't find a safe direction to go.

And the three men evidently had the same idea. When the girl dodged into another alley, they split up, two going around to cut her off and the third chasing her.

Reese nodded to himself. He chased the one into the alley; he liked those odds better.

It turned out to be a good choice. Julie Essex had stopped dead, facing a smooth ten-foot wall at the back of the alley.

The man chasing her skidded to a halt and laughed. "Gotcha!"

She spun around to face him. Reese flattened himself against a wall to stay out of her sight. "Get me over this wall," she said firmly, "or I'll tell Mom you're still growing pot on the farm."

"You wouldn't."

"Bet me."

"You bitch!"

"Wall, baby. Hurry up."

"Bitch!" But he hurried over to the wall, leaned down and cupped his hands. Julie stepped into the stirrup, climbed to his shoulder in one move, and pulled herself to the top of the wall with ease. "Thanks, Spencer!"

The young man bent back down, with his hands on his knees, and tried to catch his breath. Reese stayed against the building and watched. A few seconds later, the other two ran to the mouth of the alley. "Where'd she go?" the taller of the two demanded.

The first man gestured to the wall. "She got over it."

"You helped her!" the second man squealed. "Traitor!"

The first man was still panting; so were the others. "Had to. She threatened me."

"Wimp!"

They gathered closer. They were barely ten feet from Reese. He reached for his gun; he could get all of them at once.

"Spencer Carson is Julie's brother," Finch said firmly in his ear. "The other two, I believe, are her cousins."

Reese released his grip on his weapon. "Where'd she go?"

"She's just around the corner. To your right. On the patio of a bistro."

Reese leaned against the wall and drew deep, oxygen-rich breaths. He was somewhat gratified that the younger men took longer to recover. Julie Essex was very fit, and she could have run all of them into the ground, but at least he was better than these guys.

The youngest one's phone beeped. He glanced at it, scowled and shook his head. Then he nodded to the others, and all three of them walked out of the alley and around the corner.

Reese followed, not very distantly. Julie was already sitting at a round table, smiling sweetly at them. Ruefully, the young men fell into the other chairs. They were still sucking for air. The girl had pretty much recovered. The waiter brought them four bottles of _Dos Equis_ that Julie had evidently ordered before they arrived.

"You're buying, right?" Spencer panted.

Julie shook her head. "I got here first. You buy."

"Damn."

Reese found a dim corner to watch them from. "What was that, Finch? A traditional Carson family greeting?"

"It would seem so."

"The rich are different, aren't they?"

Finch chuckled. "A little pre-lunch parkour is probably good for the appetite."

"It just made me want a beer."

"If you weren't carrying a gun, I'd encourage you to order one."

"You never let me have any fun, Finch."

"I let you chase young women around the city, don't I?" There was a brief pause. "The slightly darker-haired one is Spencer. He's the brother closest in age to Julie. The oldest of them is Tim, and the one in the middle is Greg. They're sons of her uncle Charles."

"Big on classic names, aren't they?"

"I gather that every one of the children, especially the sons, are named with an eye toward a future presidential bid. How does it sound in a television ad, how will it look on a billboard. "

Reese nodded. "Sure. They want to be the Kennedys."

"That's probably frighteningly accurate."

The waiter brought tapas for the table, and the boys fell on the snacks with enthusiasm.

"So what the hell?" Greg said, "How could you use extortion on your own brother?"

Julie sipped her beer, ignored the finger food. "I think it's just blackmail. Extortion implies a threat of physical harm."

"If Mom finds out there's still pot on the farm, there will definitely be physical harm," Spencer answered.

"Your point is well taken. And also, why is there still pot on the farm? I thought they plowed that under years ago."

The boys shared a look around the table. "Well …" Tim said, "you know, sometimes seeds just get dropped and they sprout."

"It's ditch weed," Greg added. "It's hardly got any THC in it at all. You can smoke the whole field and not catch a buzz."

Julie looked at him. "Aren't you going to run for Congress or something?"

He laughed. "I mean, that's what the kids say. I wouldn't know, personally."

"And which of my nieces and nephews are smoking the ditch weed?"

"Damn," Spencer said. "I forgot how hard it was to talk to you. You've always got an angle."

"Survival strategy. The more I know, the more I can make you help me over the wall." She took another swig of beer. "What do you guys want?"

"Aunt Stephanie sent us," Greg volunteered. "We're supposed to make you come home."

"Oh, God."

"She really wants to see you," Spencer said.

"We're going shooting this weekend," Tim offered. "You've always been almost as good as me."

"Almost?"

"I beat you last time."

"I was nineteen years old."

"Yeah. You've had lots of time to practice up. All that fancy government training and all."

"I will kick your ass on the skeet range, Tim."

"We'll see."

"So you're coming home with us?" Greg asked eagerly.

Julie shook her head, sat back and drank her beer.

* * *

"Finch?"

"I'm here, Mr. Reese."

"Check your e-mail. I sent pictures. It might be our guy."

Finch opened the files. "They're certainly better quality that Ms. Essex's pictures." He picked the best four and set his facial recognition program to work on them. "I'll let you know."

"What'd you find out about the will?"

"Miss Morgan's information was correct, as I anticipated. At noon tomorrow Ms. Essex will inherit her grandmother's entire fortune."

"Any significance to the date?"

"It's the anniversary of Angela Carson's death, and in particular the one that follows Ms. Essex's thirtieth birthday. Apparently she thought the idea of turning a twenty-five year old loose with a vast fortune was unwise."

"Can't argue with that. How vast is the fortune?"

"That's what I'm determining now," Finch answered. His fingers flew over his keyboard. Armed with the name of the estate's current trustee, he was sure he could find everything he wanted to know. "Mr. Waldman and Mr. Kemp from the State Department are aware of this transaction," he said.

"Which makes them suspects," Reese answered immediately. "Who else?"

"A number of people at the law firm. Robert Carson's crack team of accountants. All of the elder Carsons, apparently. But none of them have a financial motive for wanting Julie dead. Once the money passes into her hands, her will is very straightforward and none of them benefit. With the exception of Mr. Kemp, and I doubt a hundred thousand dollars is sufficient motive for him."

"I could hire twenty hits in this town for that," Reese reminded him.

"True. More, if you got the bulk discount."

"And he did trade information to her mother for a box of steaks."

Finch nodded to himself. Information about Angela's estate began to come back on several screens. The funds were wisely divested, domestic and international, mostly in stock accounts but also other choice commodities. A couple caught his eye, and he flagged them as he went.

A quick scan told him it didn't add up to a billion dollars. She wasn't in Will's league, financially, and certainly not in Harold's. On the other hand, it did add up to enough to make the twenty-five million that she hadn't inherited seem somewhat trivial.

"Vast enough," Finch said. As Cardinal had suggested, Julie had drawn out three hundred thousand in interest over the years and stashed it in various common bank accounts. Nearly all of it was still there. She lived on her salary; the accounts were mad money. For quick access in emergencies.

Like hiring freelance security guards for a man she wasn't supposed to be watching.

Finch nodded to himself. The picture was coming into focus in his mind. He might be wrong; he would need to check the details. But he finally had some idea where to look.

He went back to the list of investments and began to consider each one of them.


	8. Chapter 8

Julie made her brother and cousins jump through verbal hoops for quite a while before she finally agreed to go home. Reese had the feeling she'd been planning to go anyhow; she just enjoyed toying with them. But even her surrender was on her own terms. "I can't come out this week," she said. "I've got a meeting with the attorneys in the morning."

"Why, what'd you do this time?" Tim prompted.

"Oh, shit," Spencer said over him. "Is that tomorrow? Gram's thing?"

"Yeah," she answered, very quietly.

"Shit."

"Wait," Greg said. "That's tomorrow? And you weren't going to say anything?"

"There's nothing to say."

"Really? You don't have some big 'I'm way richer than you guys will ever be' dance routine figured out? Some kind of flash mob or something?"

"No."

"Because we totally would," Tim said. "We'd have billboards and those airplanes with the message banners and all of that."

"Yeah," Spencer said, "and that's probably why none of _us_ are getting the money." The other boys grumbled, but nodded in agreement. The boy sobered. "You miss her, don't you?"

"I really do," Julie admitted.

"Finch?" Reese said. "All this emotional energy, the running and the swimming? I don't think it's about Ingram. At least not all of it."

"It's about the grandmother," Finch agreed. "Miss Morgan said they were extremely close."

"The boys are all about the money, but not her."

Finch hesitated. "Julie's husband died the day before her grandmother. Which would have been today." He pulled up the record and checked. "Six years ago today. Maybe that's why she's having trouble disconnecting from Will. If she genuinely cares about him, or if she believes she does, letting him go so close to these particular dates might be impossible for her."

Reese nodded. "She threatened me with a Skilsaw for getting too close to him, Finch. I'm willing to believe she genuinely cares about him."

Julie took a long pull on her beer. "It's weird. I met this guy yesterday who reminded me of her. A lot."

"Was he a hundred years old?" Tim asked.

"Not like that. But you remember when we were little, you'd be telling Gram some story about how it wasn't _your_ fault your church shoes were muddy, because your brother pushed you off the sidewalk?"

The boys nodded. "Or why it's not your fault you pushed your sister out of the hay loft, because your brother dared you to?" Greg added.

"Or why it's not your fault you totaled the Camaro, because your cousin put his hands over your eyes on the highway?" Tim contributed, elbowing Spencer.

"Yeah, those stories." Julie nodded. "And she'd get that look in her eyes, and you knew damn well that she knew every word was bullshit, but she was much too well-bred to call you out on it?"

"I remember," Spencer said, and the others nodded. "You could lie to Mom all day long, but not Gram."

"He was like that," Julie continued. "Like he totally knew half of everything I said was a lie, but he was letting me get away with it because he was just too polite not to."

"She is a very observant girl," Reese said.

"Yes," Finch agreed. From his tone, he rather liked the way the girl was describing him.

"It was like having Gram back for a minute. It was nice." She grinned. "Of course, it was in that 'Oh, shit, I am so busted' sort of way, but still … nice."

"You miss Gram," Spencer said again. "So after you meet with the lawyers tomorrow and have official status as new richest bitch on the block, you should come home and spend some time with the family you have left. Not next week. Tomorrow."

"Yeah," Greg agreed. "Because God knows some day all of us will be gone, too." He rolled his eyes.

"You guys breed like bunnies," Julie countered. "You will _never_ all be gone."

"But the ones of us you really like might be," Tim pointed out. "Because Aunt Stef will kill us if we don't find a way to talk you into this."

The girl shook her head. "How did you know I was here, anyhow?"

"Mom bribed somebody," Spencer said blithely.

"Of course she did."

Greg drained his beer, thumped his bottle on the table. "Okay. You coming home tomorrow, or do we need another round?"

"Oooh, we could get her drunk and just throw her ass in the car," Tim offered.

"Sure," Spencer said. "Remember what happened last time we got into a drinking contest with her?"

"No," his cousin admitted.

"None of you do," Julie told him dryly. "Not until you all woke up under the table. With no pants."

"I do remember _that_," Greg admitted.

She sighed heavily. "Next week. Thursday or Friday. Just for the weekend, and only if you don't bug me about it between now and then."

"You promise?" Spencer urged.

"I promise. But can we not get all over-the-top with this?"

"No barbeque?" Greg said.

"No fireworks?" his brother added.

"No orchestra?" Spencer chimed in.

"I remember now why I never come home," Julie said grimly.

Greg gestured for another round of beer. Julie switched to water; Reese didn't know if she was being cautious or simply calorie-conscious. The way she worked out, she could drink all the beer she wanted. The young men continued to talk. Julie largely dropped out of the conversation. She didn't seem exactly unhappy with her companions. She laughed at the jokes, listened to their stories. But she stopped participating. Withdrew.

They were drinking beer, snacking, joking, laughing.

She was mourning, alone in the crowd.

John Reese knew exactly how she felt.

* * *

**2000**

Nathan Ingram walked into the office like a man who'd just staggered home from the wars.

Harold glanced up from the keyboard. "So, how was the big move-in?" he asked.

Ingram went to the side table and picked up a water glass from the tray. Then he went to his desk, opened the bottom drawer and brought out a bottle of insanely expensive Irish whiskey. He poured the water glass half full. He glanced at Harold, with a raised eyebrow of invitation.

Harold shook his head. "Like that, was it?"

Ingram knocked back half to the whiskey. "He hates me."

"He doesn't hate you," Harold assured him. "He's going through a stage."

"He's been going through this stage for, what, sixteen years? Since he learned to talk?" He threw back the rest of the liquor and refilled his glass. "He hates me."

Harold left the keyboard and went to stand beside the desk. "It's called sipping whiskey for a reason, Nathan."

His partner scowled at him, but he put the rest of the bottle back in the drawer. "Everything I say to him is wrong. Everything is critical. And even the things I don't say are wrong. He knows I hate his hair, even though I've practically bitten my tongue out not to say anything, he knows I hate it because of the way I look at him." Ingram started to take another slug, turned it into a big sip, and then another one. "The way I _look_ at him is wrong, Harold. Jesus Christ."

"He's trying to be independent, Nathan. To find his own way." He rested his hip on the edge of the desk. "It can't be easy, being the son of a very wealthy man."

"Don't even get me started. Poor little Will, so many things he can't do because his daddy has money. My God, Harold, if he had to spend _one day_ without all the things that that money buys him, if he ever had to miss a meal because there wasn't any money … I've done everything for that boy." Ingram gestured to the office around him. "All of this, my whole life, so he wouldn't ever have to know what it was like to be without … and he hates me because I never spent enough time with him. What the hell does he _want_ from me, Harold?"

"He wants you to be everything, at all times, in all places."

"Thank you," Nathan sniped. "That was very helpful."

Harold ignored the sarcasm. "He's a young man now, Nathan. He's trying to get himself launched into the world, and to do that he has to push off from you. Didn't you have fights like this with your father, when you were his age?"

"My father would have knocked me through a wall." Ingram sipped his drink again. "You?"

"No."

Nathan knew him well enough not to pursue that question. He took another drink, put his glass down on the desk. "I'm scared to death, Harold," he admitted. "He's so impulsive. He gets these ideas in his head and he just goes with them, he never stops to think anything through, to think about the consequences."

"That's a function of his age, Nathan."

"And it's bad enough when he's at home, where I can watch him, head him off, get him out of trouble before he hurts himself … but now that he's at college? Who's going to head him off now? By the time I find out he's in trouble it will be too late."

Harold knew this wasn't entirely true; Ingram had a security detail watching his son around the clock. But there were kinds of trouble that armed men couldn't – or wouldn't – intervene in. "Nathan, listen to me. Will's headstrong, like his father. He's going to make mistakes. And some of them are going to hurt. But he's smart, and he's got a good heart. And you've taught him well."

"I haven't taught him a damn thing, Harold. I've been here with you instead." He stopped, shook his head. "I didn't mean that the way it sounded."

"I know."

Nathan looked around the office. He had meant it, Harold knew, in some ways. And he was right.

He picked up the glass and drank deeply. "You were saying. Smart, good heart."

"He'll get through this," Harold continued. "He'll probably need some help, and he'll probably screw up. He'll certainly fight with you along the way. But he will get through this. And on the other side, he'll be a fine young man that you'll be insufferably proud of."

Nathan looked at him for a long moment. Then he looked out the window, to the north, where far away his only son was settling into his first dorm room. "I already am, Harold. Maybe that's what makes this so damn hard."

Harold nodded. He was out of words. He put his hand on Ingram's shoulder for a moment. Then he straightened, went to the side table, and brought back his own glass.

* * *

**2012**

When the boys finally left, Julie strolled into the park across from the hotel and dropped onto a bench. She took out her phone out. Reese got in a long line at the coffee stand and waited patiently.

"What's up, Jules?" a man said on the phone.

"Hey, Joe," Julie answered. Her voice was very calm. "You're fired."

"What?"

"I want a new handler," she answered. "Start the paperwork today."

There was a small pause. "Jules, what the hell are you talking about?"

"I told you not to talk to my family."

"Jesus, Julie, they just want you to go home for a while. Calm down."

"Do I sound hysterical, Joe?"

She didn't sound hysterical to Reese. She sounded like she was completely in control. And furious. Her handler knew it, too. "Jules, where are you? I'll come pick you up. We'll talk about this."

Reese's eyes narrowed. He'd considered Kemp on a long list of suspects. Those words, 'I'll come pick you up', shot him to the top of the list.

The girl didn't take the bait. "We don't need to talk about anything, Joe. This is very simple. You have one chance to keep your job and your pension. Start the paperwork, right now, and get me transferred to another handler."

"Or else what?"

"Or shortly after noon tomorrow I take my old ID with my old name down to Washington, plant my ass on Madam Secretary's couch, and tell her my long sad story about how you betrayed me. She likes me, you know. I used to roll Easter eggs on her front lawn."

"Damn it, Jules …"

"I warned you, Joe."

"Just go home, Julie. Just go up to the farm for a couple days, see your folks, see your brothers and sisters. Just get the hell out of the city and go home."

"We're not discussing this, Joe."

"Your mother just wants to spend some time with you. It's been a year …"

"_Joe_," Julie snapped. "I'm done talking to you. Do the damn paperwork."

She hung up her phone and put it away.

Reese paid for his coffee, took a sip. Watched the girl. She sat very still for a long moment. Then she stood up and walked over to a man on another bench. She stood a few feet away and didn't look at him. "Anything, Vince?"

"Haven't seen him since this morning," the motorcycle mechanic/bodyguard answered.

"Sure he's still in there?"

He glanced at her. "Yeah, I'm sure."

"Sorry."

"Got any idea how long this will go? I'm not complaining, just need to line the guys up."

"I don't know. At least …"

The woman snapped her head around, toward a spot north of Ingram's hotel. She froze and stared very fixedly at a little cluster of trees around a fountain a hundred yards away. Reese followed her line of sight, but he didn't see anything that should have alarmed her. After a very long moment she shook her head and relaxed. "Maybe just through tonight. I'm going to see about getting a pro team in. I'll let you know."

"Will do."

She stared at the fountain again. Then finally she turned and walked back toward her hotel.

Reese stayed where he was. Though their encounter the night before had been remarkably pleasant, he doubted that a second one would be as friendly. She didn't have handcuffs anymore; she'd probably have to shoot him.

He guessed she was in the mood to shoot someone right about now.

After she went back into the hotel, he looked toward the fountain again. A full five minutes after she had gone, the blond man from the car slipped out from the shadow of the trees and walked swiftly the other way.

Reese whistled softly to himself. Nothing wrong with the girl's instincts. Nothing at all. He wondered if she'd known he was in the park, too. Or chasing after her and the boys. It wouldn't have surprised him.

The motion-activated camera on the candy box peeped. Reese brought out his tablet and watched the video feed while he sipped his coffee. The box was still on the coffee table, and he could see the young woman only up to her waist. She paced the living room a couple times, and then she placed another phone call.

There was an odd little static of tiny beeps, the sound of his phone figuring out which feed to prioritize, and then there was Finch's voice in his ear. "Harold Wren."

"Mr. Wren," Julie said politely, "this is Julie Essex, from the State Department. We met yesterday?"

"Of course. I'm not likely for forget you any time soon, Miss Essex." Finch's voice was full of charm and warmth, and Reese had heard it enough to know that not all of it was faked. "How are you?"

"I'm well. And you?"

"Better now that Will's home, I'll admit."

"How's he doing?"

Finch hesitated. "He's still a bit .. unnerved, I suppose. But he seemed better today. I saw him for breakfast, in fact, and he was much calmer."

"Good. I'm glad somebody's making him eat. He forgets."

"I can tell. What can I do for you, Miss Essex? I'm sure this isn't a social call."

"Actually … it sort of is."

"Oh?"

Reese continued to watch the monitor. The girl continued to pace. "What are you doing, Julie?" he murmured to himself. "You've done so well this far. Don't screw it up now."

"This is not by any means an official State Department call," she said clearly. "I am not calling in any official capacity. I'm just Julie right now. I'm just Will's … friend."

"All right," Finch said cautiously.

Julie froze in her tracks, and even without seeing her face, Reese knew she was about to lie. "Mr. Wren, there's been some very low-level chatter on the wire about Will. It's nothing significant. It's nothing that even rises to the level of notice for my superiors. Honestly, it's probably nothing at all."

"But it's caused you to be concerned," Finch supplied.

"It has." She began pacing again; this next part was true. "I'm probably over-reacting. I tend to get over-involved with my assignments and to perceive danger where none really exists. But in this case, and given the events of the past week, I wondered if I could … ask a rather … enormous personal favor."

"You want me to reinstate his security team."

"I do, yes, sir."

"Immediately. While he's still in the US."

"Yes, sir."

"You think he's in danger?"

Julie sighed. "Mr. Wren, I honestly don't know. I feel like he might be, but I have nothing concrete to anchor that feeling in. I probably shouldn't have called you at all."

"No, no, no," Finch said quickly. "I'm glad you called. Please. Where Will's safety is concerned, I would much rather err on the side of caution. Even if this 'chatter' of yours amounts to nothing – heaven knows there are plenty of ways to get in trouble in New York City. I think it's a very good suggestion."

The girl stopped pacing again. Both her body and her voice seemed to relax.

"I believe you recommended that I retain Skydd again, didn't you?" Finch continued.

"They're the best there is," she affirmed. "I know they're very expensive. If cost is an issue …"

"It's not," he said quickly. "Believe me, it's not even a consideration."

"Good."

"I'll call them right away," Finch promised. "They can probably have a team by morning. Or immediately, if you feel that's necessary."

"Morning should be fine. Thank you, Mr. Wren."

"No, no. Thank you. I'm very glad that you called." He paused. "Ms. Essex?"

"Yes?"

"When I spoke to Will this morning, he mentioned that he'd tried to call you, and that you hadn't returned his call."

The pacing resumed. "I'm sorry, Mr. Wren, but I can't …"

"I understand," Finch interrupted, "that you need to break off this relationship cleanly. I do, believe me. I agree that it's for the best. And I've tried to convince Will of that. I'll continue to try."

"Thank you."

"There is one thing, though, that he was particularly distressed that he couldn't say to you. One thing that was very important."

"Mr. Wren …"

"When you told me yesterday that he needed to hate you for a while? He wants you to know, whatever else, that he never hated you. And that he never could."

The girl froze again. Reese thought he heard a little catch in her breath. Her voice, when she spoke, was very small. "Thank you, Mr. Wren. That … thank you."

"You're very welcome. Thank you for calling."

The call ended, and Reese's earpiece beeped softly and reset itself.

The candy cam moved swiftly. Reese looked away from the screen to avoid the vertigo it induced. When he looked back, the angle was higher. He couldn't see the young woman anywhere; the cameras were pointed toward the window and the far end of the couch. Both views rose up and down softly, rhythmically. An arm passed by the couch-side camera, very close, up and the down again. He heard the television set in the background, soft voices and a laugh track. The video feed shook wildly, then settled back to the slow waves. There was a soft chewing noise from above.

Julie Essex, Reese realized, was slumped on her couch with the box on chest, soothing her battered feeling with fine chocolates.

Will Ingram's instincts weren't usually very good, but this one time, at least, they'd been dead on.

* * *

An hour later, Julie's phone rang again. It was the freelance bodyguard, Mauer.

"Hey, Vince," the girl said.

"Hey. These guys just pulled up in back of the hotel. Two of them, young, kinda shady lookin'. One went up to Ingram's room."

The candy box moved again, landed on the coffee table with a thud. "Driving a loud blue convertible?"

"That's them. Kids that age got no business with a car like that."

"Yeah. They're Ingram's friends, kinda."

"Kid's comin' out with them now. You want me to follow them?"

"No, I'll get it. I know where they're going. Just chill for a while, I'll let you know when he's headed back."

"You sure? You're payin' an awful lot of money for us to be layin' around a hotel room."

"Worth every penny to me. Enjoy. Get some room service, whatever."

"Lobster?"

"Absolutely. Hey, listen, the pro team will be there in the morning. Skydd guys."

Mauer whistled. "You payin' for them, too?"

"Not me. Once they get here you're done. We can settle up them. But, um, they don't know you're there, so try to back out easy, okay?"

"You got it."

"Thanks, Vince."

* * *

Reese sat in his car and watched Essex sit in her car and look at the empty blue convertible. They were outside the same apartment building they'd been at the night before, and presumably the same rigged poker game was going on inside. Julie hasn't gone inside to watch this time. Reese could guess at the calculation she'd made: It was still daylight; the risk of being seen by Ingram was too high. She knew where he was and who he was with, and they presented a threat to his money, but not to his life.

He agreed with her assessment. Not that she'd asked.

He'd given her some extra space, but Reese still had the uneasy notion that she knew he was there.

Maybe he was just paranoid.

In his ear, Finch said, "Mr. Reese?" He sounded more urgent than usual.

"I'm here, Finch."

"I've been able to identify the blond man in your pictures. It's likely that he is in fact the same man that alarms Ms. Essex. His name is Rudolph Gund."

Reese sat up straighter. "Rudy Gund?"

"You know the name. I thought you might. Mr. Gund used to be with the NSA. Now he's a professional assassin. And a quite expensive one at that."

Reese got out of his car and stood next to it, took a long slow look all around the neighborhood. "I know his reputation, Finch. He likes elaborate scenarios. Likes to plan things out. To stalk his prey, toy with them. Torment them. And to get someone else to kill them, when he can."

"He's a psychopath," Finch said with quiet horror.

"And he's after our girl," Reese confirmed. "What have you got on him?

Finch took an audible breath. "He entered the country under a false identity, of course. A Mr. Thomas Bailen. His most recent passport stamp is from Mali."

"He set the girl up there," Reese said. "That's his style. It wouldn't be hard. The right word about a rich American to the right militant. It's a safe bet that the girl would stay right beside him. Gund just had to clear out the security detail and make sure she was killed in the crossfire."

He raised his head and scanned the many, many windows that overlooked Julie Ingram's car.

"A tragic loss of a federal agent," Finch said tightly. "And Will would have just been …"

"Collateral damage," Reese finished for him. "Who hired him?"

"Still working on that. The question is, who benefits if the girl dies before she inherits?" Finch tsk'd softly. "There are no secondary provisions in the grandmother's will. No contingent heirs. I wouldn't have let her write it that way." The keyboard clattered furiously. "None of this makes any sense. If Julie Essex doesn't survive to inherit, the entire estate will be thrown into escrow. It will take years to sort it out. Even if there's an earlier will to fall back on – assuming it hasn't been destroyed and can be authenticated – there would certainly be claims and counter-claims by the surviving heirs. The legal battles could take decades."

"So in the short term," Reese said, "if Julie doesn't get the money, nobody gets the money?"

"Exactly. It benefits no one …" His voice trailed off.

"Finch?"

"Stay close to the girl. I'll get back to you."

Reese shrugged to himself as the call went dead. Finch in the grasp of inspiration frequently abandoned social niceties; he didn't take it personally.

He didn't see Gund anywhere. But the hairs on the back of his neck prickled. He was here, somewhere.

Reese moved into the shadows and got closer to Julie's car. The kidnapping in Mali. It should have been clean and simple. As Finch said, a tragic death of an agent, vastly overshadowed by the murder of a handsome young billionaire. Probably no one would have connected it to the girl's pending inheritance. Even the family would have thought it was no more than tragic coincidence.

But Julie'd been too quick for them, too alert. Gund had had to get Ingram's security team out of the way, and the minute they vanished Julie Essex sounded the alarm. It had been close, but he'd failed.

Gund was a hunter. He hadn't counted on his prey's instincts.

Reese thought about the sedan on the street that had almost run her down the day before. A tragic traffic incident, all too common in the city. Hit and run driver never found. Or, more likely, found dead by his own hand, with a remorseful note left in his damaged vehicle. He shook his head. That would be too simple for Gund. He liked things to play out slowly. He liked to watch.

The speeding car had probably been a coincidence.

But now what? He glanced at his watch. It was getting late in the afternoon. The goal seemed to be to stop her from inheriting the grandmother's money, for whatever reason, and to do that, they – Gund and whoever hired him – needed her dead before noon the next day. They were running out of time.

If I were trying to kill her, Reese thought, I'd go with something simple. An auto accident. A senseless street crime. Something quick and clean. Nothing elaborate.

For one moment he let himself hate that he could think that way. A small part of him rejoiced that he could be repelled by the thinking; there had been many years when it wouldn't have provoked even the smallest emotional reaction. When he had simply been a killer among killers. But his humanity was starting to reassert itself, in small ways, little sparks. Sometimes more. Right now, though, he couldn't let that distract him. He needed to think like a killer to stop one.

Reese would go simple. But Gund wouldn't, not until he had to. If it came down to tomorrow morning and she was still alive, he might simply shoot her on the street. But for now he'd still want to play with her.

He wondered how long the assassin had been watching the girl. And how times he'd let her catch a glimpse of him. Just a quick look, enough to keep her on edge. And just her; no one else would ever see him. Many, he was sure. Playing games. Tweaking her perception, but never giving her quite enough to act on. Toying with her. Pushing her to panic.

You picked the wrong girl, he thought with grim satisfaction. This one learned about head games in the bed of a master manipulator while she was still in college, and she'd come through it just fine. Reese never thought he'd credit him for it, but Mark Snow had taught this girl exactly the lessons she'd needed to handle a sick bastard like Gund. If Snow couldn't drive her crazy, he thought, you've got no chance in hell of doing it.

But if Gund couldn't make her frantic and fearful, though, he could still certainly make her dead.

And his time was running out.

Reese touched his earwig. "Finch, I'm going to …"

Julie Essex got out of her car, and Reese slipped into a doorway to watch her.

She look a long, slow look around. Looked up at the windows, too. Then she crossed the street and went into the apartment building.

"Mr. Reese?"

Reese frowned. "Julie's gone into the building."

"Do you think there's a problem?"

"She wasn't in a hurry. I think she's just checking on Will."

"I have more information about Mr. Gund," Finch said. "He's being paid though a shell company, rather well-concealed, but I can say with some certainty that I know who's behind it. The executor of Angela Smith Carson's estate is also the trustee of the blind trust that currently holds the estate's assets. There are certain stipulations on the trust, limitations on what sorts of investments can be made, the level of risk acceptable to the …"

"Finch."

He took a breath. "Lawrence Schaeffer's been playing outside the rules, making high-risk investments with the funds in the trust. Until two years ago he was highly successful at it. It looks like he was skimming off the dividends of those high-risk ventures, but maintaining the principal of the funds."

"And then it went south," Reese guessed.

"He lost part of the principal. Then he took increasingly larger risks to try to recover his losses."

"Bottom line?"

"The trust is missing roughly fifty million dollars."

Reese whistled softly. "That's not a number Daddy's accountants are likely to overlook."

"No, it certainly is not."

"But if the girl's dead …"

"As I said before, it will be years, perhaps decades, before the inheritance is sorted out. And in the meantime, Mr. Schaeffer will very likely remain executor and trustee. He has time to cover his tracks, or to take a sizeable chunk of the fund and simply vanish."

Reese nodded. "We know who, we know why, and we know it has to happen before noon tomorrow."

"The only thing we don't know," Finch agreed, "is how they plan to do it."

"Whatever they've got planned, it's not happening. When Julie comes out, I'm going to button her up and stash her somewhere."

"She won't like it."

"She doesn't have to like it. Gund's running out of time."

"Whatever you think is best." Finch's lack of hesitation told Reese that he completely agreed. "I'll send you the address of a safe house nearby."

"Thank you." Reese checked his phone for the address, mapped a quick route in his head. Patted his pockets; he still had both sets of handcuffs. He'd probably need them, at least initially. But from what he knew about Julie Essex, once she understood what was happening she probably wouldn't be much of a problem.

As long as Will Ingram was safe.

Reese shook his head. That was going to be the rub, of course. "Finch?"

"Yes, Mr. Reese?"

"Did you already call Skydd about getting a new team on Ingram?"

"Yes. They'll pick up surveillance on him by six a.m. tomorrow."

"Can you move that time up?"

"I'm sure I can, for a fee."

"Do it."

"Right away. Do you think Will's in danger, too?"

"No. But I think his girlfriend will."

There was a very brief pause, and he could tell Finch was debating whether to argue over his use of the term girlfriend. In the end, he didn't. "I'll take care of it right now."

* * *

Finch made the call and gave the Skydd dispatcher Will Ingram's current location. He understood Reese's reasoning perfectly; there was likely no danger to Will, but the girl was would probably be much more cooperative if she knew he was protected.

No matter how much she complained, Finch thought, he'd be relieved when Reese finally had her in close.

He could hear the soft murmur of motion over the woman's phone, fabric against plastic as she walked. Footsteps, soft and distant. Breathing, equally faint. He'd listened to enough phones for enough hours to be able to identify every nuance without thought. It had gotten so routine that the library seemed eerily silent without the background noise of someone's privacy being gently, passively violated.

Finch turned his attention back to the accounts. The flagged transactions, the things that he would never have allowed his own money to be invested in, made a pretty little pattern now. Bigger risks, bigger rewards – or bigger losses. In the end, Schaeffer was just as much a gambler as Will Ingram was. The difference was that he gambled far more than he could afford to lose – and it wasn't his money.

Julie Essex said, very quietly, "Son of a bitch. Where did you guys go?"

Finch sat up straight. "Mr. Reese?"

"I heard her."

Faster footsteps, louder. Running, as quietly as she could. A moment of hesitation, another curse of frustration, and then a soft knock on wood.

A soft metallic scrape, a click. A lock being picked.

A door creaked.

And then silence, for a very long moment.

"I'm going in," Reese said.

The girl said, "Oh, my God." And then, softly, "Will?"

Louder, moving faster. "Will? Will?"

Footsteps, doors opening and closing. She called for him a couple more times. And then more running.

Finch felt cold familiar panic fold over him. "Mr. Reese?" he asked frantically.

The door creaked again. An instant of pause. Reese said, "Will's gambling buddies are dead. They've been shot."

"Will's not there?"

"No." Reese hesitated. "If he is, the girl didn't find him. Hang on."

There was the sound of searching, a good deal louder than the girl's search had been. "He's not here, Finch. Where's the girl?"

Finch forced himself concentrate, to listen to her feed. "On the stairs. You're sure …"

"He's not here, Finch." Reese was running, now, too.

"Cameras," Finch said, mostly to himself. No time for panic. No time for fear-clouded thought. He's not half-way around the world this time. Find him.

A car door slammed; an engine started; tires squealed.

Reese said, "Finch … I lost her."

"I'll track her GPS …"

Julie's phone activated. "C'mon, c'mon," she muttered while the outgoing call rang.

After the third ring, her handler answered. "Kemp."

"It's Julie. I need you to do something for me." Her words were fast, but not frantic.

"Oh, so now you're speaking to me again?"

"I don't have time for any shit, Joe. I need a trace on Will Ingram's phone."

"What? What the hell are you doing, Jules? You can't be following him around …"

"He's in trouble."

"You don't know th.."

"Joe. Trace the phone. _Now_."

"Or what? You're going to tell on me?"

"I don't have time for this."

"You better make time," Kemp snapped. "Stop and think about what you're doing. You're not on assignment any more. What are you doing, stalking him? If you think he's in trouble, call the local police and let them find him. That's how we do things, Julie."

"God damn it, Joe …" She stopped, took a deep breath. "Joe. _Please_."

He hesitated. "Fine. Fine. I'll get a track right now. And then I'm coming out there. And when we find him, he had _better_ damn well be in trouble. You got that?"

"Thanks, Joe."

"Shit. Crazy broad." The phone went dead.

In the silence that followed, Finch said, quietly, "I've got her GPS. She's headed north. Although, obviously, that may change."

"I'll get him back, Harold," Reese promised.

"If he's still alive."

"He's alive." There was great and reassuring certainty in Reese's voice. "Gund's a hunter. He knows live bait is always more effective."

Finch nodded. He was numb now; the worst of the panic had washed over him. He could think, though it was through a cloud. You know how to do this, he told himself. You've done it a hundred times before. Run the tracks, run the traces. Find the boy, keep track of the girl. Trust your partner. Think. Move.

He reached for a second keyboard to track Will's phone.

* * *

Kemp sent the address before Finch did. "There you go, Jules," he said. "You want me to call the cops?"

"Not yet," she answered. "Let me see what we're dealing with."

Reese watched as she threw her rented car through a U-turn without ever hitting her brakes. A block later he followed her.

"I'm comin' out there," Kemp said. "Don't so anything until I get there. You hear me?"

"We'll see." The woman's voice was very quiet, calm. Reese recognized that tone. It was his own.

"I mean it, Julie," her handler warned. "Wait for me. We'll figure this out."

Her phone went dead without a reply.

Reese looked down at his phone briefly. "How did he get the trace before you, Finch?"

"He didn't trace the phone," Finch answered tightly. "He didn't have to. He's already there."

"Kemp sold her out?"

"Nine deposits of nine thousand nine hundred and ninety dollars."

Reese nodded to himself. "I need schematics of the location."

"I'll get them for you when I get there."

"No chance I can talk you into staying at the library?"

"No," Finch answered flatly. "You have all the useful _information_ I can provide. I'll bring my laptop, just in case. But I'm coming out there."

Reese didn't try to argue. "When you get there, you stay in the car, Finch."

There was a very long pause. "Fine."

"I need you to bring me a few things."


	9. Chapter 9

The girl was quick, fluid, very quiet. Reese was just a little quieter. He grabbed her from behind, his right arm completely around her shoulders, pinning her arms down, and his left hand over her mouth, holding her head tight and still against his shoulder. He moved his right leg to the side just in time to avoid the vicious donkey kick she aimed at his kneecap. "Stop it," he said in her ear. "It's Reese."

She bit his hand hard enough to draw blood. He shook her, but he didn't remove his hand. "Stop it," he repeated.

She bit him a second time. Then she tried to kick him again.

Reese growled softly. He slid his injured hand up just enough to pinch her nose between his thumb and forefinger, pressed his bleeding palm against her mouth, and smothered her. Julie struggled wildly, fighting for air. He didn't let her have any.

She tried for one last kick, one last bite.

Finally she slumped in his arms.

Reese kept his hand in place for five more seconds, then removed it just enough to let her breathe. "Nice try," he murmured, "but I know you're still with me.

She took a couple deep breaths and tried to lunge away from him. Since he hadn't loosened his right arm, she went nowhere. "Are you going to stop," Reese said, "or are we going to waste time going another round?"

Julie stopped struggling and stood very still, very tense in his grip. "Where's Ingram?"

"I don't have him," Reese answered. "But I'm here to get him back." He held his left hand out in front of her face. Her teeth had sliced into his palm, leaving two short, very deep incisions. Blood dripped from his hand onto the ground. There was probably more on her face and mouth.

She wriggled a little. "Let go."

If he did, he knew, she'd either run, probably right into danger, or turn on him and try to claw his eyes out. "Not just yet. Let's talk. You know this is a trap, right?"

"I know."

"You saw Ingram's friends?"

"Yes."

"Did you call the cops?"

Julie shook her head. "They'll get him killed."

"So you just blew off all your training and came out here to get him by yourself?"

"Yes."

Reese nodded. "That's the kind of thinking I like in a girl. Do you have any back-up at all?"

"My handler's coming."

"Your handler," John informed her, "sold you out to these guys."

She went quiet for a moment. "Are you sure?"

"Yes."

Julie stood very still. Reese loosened his grip some, but she didn't try to move away. She pulled one hand free and wiped her mouth, then wiped it on her jacket. "Who are they?" she asked.

"The blond guy you've been chasing is Rudy Gund. He's a pro. The other five are just his flunkies."

"What do they want with Will?"

"He's bait. I told you, they want you. Dead. Tonight."

The girl didn't panic. She just stood in his arms and continued to gather information, calmly, methodically. Reese liked that about her. "Why?"

"So that no one finds out that Grandma's trust fund is fifty million dollars light."

The young woman shuddered, just once. "Schaeffer hired them?"

"Yes."

"And it's all about the money."

"It usually is."

"Please let go now."

Reese dropped his arms. Julie turned, but stayed close. Studied his face. And didn't try to rip it off. She took a tissue out of her jacket pocket and pressed it against his palm. "They won't let Will go."

It wasn't a question, but Reese answered it anyhow. "No. They need you to die in the line of duty, trying to save him. Gund will drop a few of the hired hands, make it look like some kind of half-assed terrorist thing. But Will Ingram will not survive."

Julie nodded. "Then I've got to go get my boy back."

Reese put a hand on her shoulder. He wasn't precisely restraining her, but they both knew he could. "Once they have you, they've got no reason to keep him alive. Stay here. I'll get him."

"No."

"You don't trust me."

Her eyes never wavered. "I would trust you with my life just because Mark Snow wants you dead. With _my_ life. But not with his."

"His life is worth more than yours?"

"Oh, God, yes."

Reese nodded. "I thought you might feel that way."

"Mr. Reese," Finch said in his ear, "this is a bad idea."

Reese ignored him. He'd already made the calculation. Reese against six armed men: No problem. One of the six was a highly-skilled assassin: Still no problem. But Reese with a frightened and possibly resistant hostage against five guns plus one expert, and suddenly he didn't like the odds. The girl could get to Ingram to go with her far more easily than he could. Essex with Ingram, and Reese's hands were still free. Back to no problem.

If she'd been a civilian, he would have left her handcuffed to a radiator somewhere, complaining bitterly behind a gag while he rescued the young doctor. But Julie Essex was a professional. She wasn't as well-trained as he was, nor as skilled, but she was a professional nonetheless. She knew the risks and the odds. And presumably she knew how to use a gun.

If the girl stayed outside, she was safe, but he might lose Ingram. If the girl came in with him, she was much less safe, but Ingram was much more likely to survive.

There was a final calculation, and it was a cold and brutal one that Reese made without hesitation: If they lost the girl, Finch would be distraught. If they lost the boy, Finch might be destroyed.

Finch had lost enough.

It helped that Julie was not only willing but adamant. He wouldn't have ordered her to go, or even asked her to. But the way the odds stacked up, he certainly wasn't going to force her to stay behind.

He released her shoulder and reached behind him for the pack Finch had brought. "Put this on." He held a bulletproof vest out to her.

The woman took it, retreated half a dozen steps, and put it on without taking her eyes off him. Reese watched her with some amusement; clearly she knew exactly what the civilian treatment plan was and she wasn't giving him a chance to grab her. "Relax. You can come along. I promise."

She strapped the vest on tightly. "Why are you here?"

"Same reason you are. To get the boy back."

She didn't ask any more questions. Reese liked professionals. He handed her the pack, helped her slip it over her shoulders. "There's a second vest in there. When you get to Ingram, put it on him and get him out. There will probably be zip ties. Have you still got a knife?"

"I've got one."

"Good girl." He reached for her head and she reared back. "Calm down. It's an earwig."

Julie took the device and put it in her ear. "How can you hear me?"

"Over your phone."

"How long have you had my phone bugged?"

"Since you landed at the airport."

"Fantastic."

He checked the link. "Come on."

They slid through the shadows around the side of the building, past the gate and into the work yard. "Can you prove it?" she asked.

"What?"

"The assassin, the money. Is there proof out there, somewhere?"

"You don't believe me?"

"If we both die here, will they get away with it?"

Reese shook his head. "No. They won't."

"Good."

"But let's not die here, anyhow."

"Okay."

Reese reached the dumpster and climbed up, almost silently. He was not surprised when Julie followed him without assistance. Here at the back of the buildings the windows had only been installed on the first two floors; above, there were unfinished openings. He pointed to the third floor. "You're going in there," he said. "Ingram's probably on the top floor. Find him, get him and then get down the northeast stairs. I'll make sure they're clear."

"Six against one?"

Reese shrugged. "I'll keep one hand behind my back, if you think that makes it more fair."

Julie raised one eyebrow at him. "Do they just install some kind of ego chip when you join the Agency, or how does that work?"

He grinned crookedly. "Just get the boy. Don't worry about me. I'll try not to shoot anybody until you're got him." He checked his gun, watched while she checked hers. He'd had Finch bring heavier firepower, but after one look at the building he'd left it in the car. The interior walls were nothing but drywall; his odds of shooting right through and killing a friendly were too high for anything but handguns.

"Speaking of ego," he said, "I have to know. Did you really sleep with Mark Snow?"

Julie nodded. "Well, no. Technically. I don't remember any sleeping that weekend."

Reese groaned.

"Mr. Reese," Finch scolded in his ear, "Will Ingram's life is still in danger. Is this really the best use of your time?"

It was, actually, Reese thought. He wanted Snow in the back of her mind. Their target had much the same mindset as Mark; he wanted her to have instant access to that way of thinking. He didn't plan on letting Gund have enough time to toy with her, but the best-laid plans sometimes went wrong. A bit of mental defense never hurt.

"And to answer your next question," Julie continued, "yes, the sex was really that good."

"You could have lied about that."

"You could have lied about the phone." She looked up at the opening where the third floor window should have been. "Let's do this."

Reese set his feet, then locked his fingers together and bent slightly to offer her a boost. She put her right foot in the stirrup of his hands, pushed up swiftly, put her left foot on his shoulder, and then she was gone. Reese looked up in time to see her roll over the open windowsill and disappear into the building. He climbed down and went around the side of the building, in search of the first sentry.

* * *

Helpless. Will Ingram was in danger again, and Harold Finch was still helpless.

Finch sat behind the wheel of the car and glared at his laptop screen. He could look at the blueprints of the building. He could hear every word Reese and the woman said. What he could not do was be of any possible use to them. He put his hands on the steering wheel and squeezed as hard as he could. The motion caused pain to shoot up his arm to his neck. He held on, reveling in the pain for a moment.

The boy wasn't halfway around the world this time. He was right there, inside the building somewhere. He was in danger, possibly in pain. And there still wasn't a damn thing Finch could do about it.

It hadn't always been like this. He could run once. He could have …

It was all a lie. He could never have kept up with the girl, not on his best day. He would never have been any use to Reese in this situation, even before his injury. He was not a physical man. He never had been. His talent was for …

Finch released the steering wheel. Relief washed up his arm neck. His talent, he reminded himself, was for intellectual pursuits. He could look at the blueprints, he could provide …

He stopped and looked over at the half-constructed building. The front and sides had all the windows in place. In the back, the only bottom two floors were fully enclosed. The space behind the building was enclosed behind a high temporary fence. It was always a challenge in the city to close in a site faster than the thieves could steal the building materials, while at the same time leaving openings to get additional materials inside. What they'd done here was typical. Seal off the easy entrances, and use a crane to get rest in through the unfinished windows. But building officials in the city were highly paranoid about things like fires in construction zones, because of the real possibility that a fire could spread to neighboring properties. So they were strict about security controls for any project as it became enclosed.

Which all meant, Finch realized, that somewhere there was a control panel. And _that_, that was where his talent came into play.

He tucked his laptop under his arm and slid out of the car. He looked around, then moved carefully through the gate and across to the construction trailer. It was padlocked, but that lock presented no great challenge. As a precaution, he carried the lock into the trailer with him. He snapped on the small work lamp and sat down at the panel.

A quick scan told him everything he needed to know. He tapped his earwig. "Mr. Reese?"

"Finch? Where are you?"

"In the construction trailer."

"You said you'd stay in the car."

"Yes, yes. But from here I can control all the interior door locks, and also the construction lights."

Reese sighed. "Stay there, Finch. And stay off the girl's feed."

"Of course." He set up the phones swiftly, so that Reese could talk to him or to Julie, but that the conversations could not overlap. The last thing they needed, at this juncture, was for Ms. Essex to connect Will's Uncle Harold with John Reese, and she might be good enough with voices to do just that if she heard him.

Finch stretched his hands out over the control panel and mentally practiced the lay-out. It might be of no use at all, but at least he wasn't sitting in the car. He set up the laptop on the counter next to him. "Let me know what you need."

* * *

Reese caught the first sentry from behind and put him down with a single punch. He wasn't sure how long he'd need him to stay down, so he secured his hands behind his back with a zip tie, gagged him, and tucked him into the first room to his left. "Finch? Room 102. Can you lock the door?"

In three seconds, the mechanical lock clicked. "Done," Finch said.

"Good." Reese drew his weapon and moved into further into the building. His main goal was to clear the stairway, but he didn't want to give Gund a chance to trap them, either. He wished he had thermal imaging, maybe a little satellite view. He could ask Finch to get it, he supposed. For all he knew, Finch could manage it.

It was a scary notion.

He moved to the southwest staircase and started up.

* * *

Julie said, very quietly, "Reese, I've got one in the north sixth floor corridor, just off the staircase. He's wandering. Doesn't look very bright."

"Can you get around him?"

"No problem."

"Leave him, then. Find the boy."

"He's all yours."

Reese nodded his approval. If the man wasn't paying close attention, Julie could simply slip past him. Apparently she did, because the next thing he heard was a bit of frantic thumping that sounded like a chair being hopped on the floor, and then her voice again, in a whisper. "Will, stop, stop. It's me. Shh, it's me."

The thumping stopped, and shortly after Will Ingram said, "Julie? What are you doing here?"

"Shhh." There was a snap of zip tie being cut. "How come every time I turn my back, you let someone tie you up?"

"I offered to let _you_ tie me up, but you wouldn't go for it."

Evidently, Reese thought, the boy wasn't badly injured.

Another snap. "Don't think I wasn't tempted. Wiggle your toes. Get some feeling back in your feet."

"Who are these guys?"

"Long story. Can you walk? Come here."

"Julie …"

"Shh. Over here."

"Julie, I am really sorry. I was a total dick at the airport."

"Take your jacket off. Put this on."

"What is it?"

"Second Chance. My personal favorite."

"I love you, Julie."

"Other arm. There. You don't know anything about me."

"I know you're very brave and very kind. I know everything important."

"No, you don't."

"I … oww! Does it have to be that tight?"

"Only if you want it to keep the bullets out. Put your jacket back on."

Reese grinned to himself. He came upon the second flunky. Like Julie's sentry upstairs, this one was wandering. Reese guessed that the wanderers and the one he'd already subdued were meant to be the sacrificial terrorists in this little drama. He moved up behind the man. As he reached for him, the man turned around. Reese hit him hard in the jaw. The man staggered back, but he didn't go down, Instead he bolted for the exit.

"No, you don't," Reese muttered. He caught him as he opened the door and dragged him back into the stairwell. The man swung wildly; Reese ducked it easily, hit him in the ribs and then caught the face again as he doubled over.

The man dropped. Reese was pretty sure this one wouldn't get up soon, but he hauled him by the collar out into the hallway anyhow and shoved him into a room. He tapped his earwig. "Finch?" he called again. "Lock 204."

Again the door lock clicked. "Done." In that one word, Reese could hear his intense relief about Ingram.

"I like this lock thing, Finch."

"I'm glad you approve."

Reese went back to the stairwell, and back to listening to Essex and Ingram.

" … one thing that's important that I don't know about you?" Ingram was asking.

"Three," the girl answered. "I have eleven brothers and three sisters. This time tomorrow I'll have a personal net worth somewhere north of Donald Trump's. And I'm not really a blonde. Let's go."

"Wait. What?"

"Which what?"

"You're not really a blonde? Yeah, that's definitely a deal-breaker."

The girl didn't laugh out loud, but there was a chuckle in her voice. "Damn it, Ingram …"

And then there was silence.

Reese paused, frowning. The silence was wrong. Something had happened.

And then the girl again, very soft. "Stop it. We have to move."

"Sorry. I didn't know if I'd get a chance to do that again."

Reese took a deep breath and kept moving. There were reasons operatives weren't supposed to be involved with their assignments. Stopping in mid-rescue for a quick make-out session was just one of many. But the girl, at least, seemed to have recovered her wits. "Here's what you need to know about wearing a bullet-proof vest: It won't stop a head shot."

"Well, duh."

"Yeah, duh. You'd be surprised how not intuitive that concept is when guns start going off. Second thing. If I tell you to run, I mean it. There are stairs in that corner. Find them, get down them, and run."

"I won't leave you …"

There was a soft but distinct thump – of a young man's body bring shoved against a wall, not with any great gentleness. "Listen to me," Essex hissed. "If I tell you to run, it's because I need to be sure you're not under my feet when I move. Because I don't have time to be tangled up with you. I need you to run so I can do what I need to do to keep us both alive. If I have to argue with you, it's likely to get me killed. Got it?"

After a moment, very grudgingly, Ingram answered, "Got it."

"Good. Stay close. Let's go."

Reese climbed the rest of the stairs quickly and exited at the far end of the sixth floor. "Finch, can you seal off the southwest staircase?"

"Of course." And then, "Done."

"Good. Stand by on the lights."

Julie said, sharply, softly, "Get back, get back." There was a little quiet footwork, no gunshots. Then she said, more clearly, "Reese, my wandering guard is leaning on the stairway door. He didn't see us."

"Tuck in and wait for me. I'm almost there."

"Copy that."

"Who are you talking to?" Ingram whispered.

"Some guy I met in the parking lot. He's on our side, I think."

"You _think_?"

"I'm pretty sure. It's complicated."

"Shouldn't there be cops or something?"

"There should be, but I didn't want to get you killed."

"Oh." To his credit, the boy stopped asking questions then.

* * *

Reese made his way swiftly down the hall. On this floor, and probably everything above it, only the stairways had security doors. Most of the rooms were unfinished and didn't have any doors at all. He cut through some of the unfinished rooms and, as he'd hoped, came to a doorway behind the wandering sentry. If he could drop him without any noise, they'd be down to three against one – against two, if he counted Julie, which he supposed he really should.

The man turned and wandered away from the stairway door and up the hallway toward Reese. Reese jumped through the doorway and grabbed him, spun and threw his head against the wall. It was only drywall, so it did more damage to the wall than to his head. "Julie, go!" Reese barked.

The wanderer got to his feet, shook his head, and charged at Reese. Reese dodged to the left, but the man got his arm around his waist and threw him with his momentum. Reese spun, banged his shoulder off the doorframe, and followed the man into the unfinished room.

He grabbed the guy, and the guy grabbed him, and they spun, each searching for an advantage, down the long row of openings to the other end of the building. At each doorway Reese tried to bang the man's head against the framing lumber, and his opponent did the same, but neither of them could manage a good solid blow.

Finally the man released him, wheeled and threw an elbow. It connected against Reese's cheekbone. But he threw his own fist against the man's ribs and felt something crack. They parted, circled, both trying to catch their breath while they sized up their opponent. It wasn't actually until then that Reese notice that the man had six inches and fifty pounds on him. He shrugged. The bigger they are, he thought.

He heard the stairway door open, and then Julie barked, "Get back, get back," again.

And then a man said, "Stay right there, Julie."

And the girl answered, "Get out of the way, Joe."

Reese swore through gritted teeth. The big guy came at him again. Reese ducked under his arm, landed a nice right-left combination on his belly. Evidently the man did his crunches; it was like hitting a brick wall. An arm like an anchor rope surrounded Reese's own ribs, and the guy actually lifted him off his feet while he pounded his kidneys with his free hand.

"You can't go that way. I told you to go home, Julie," Kemp said. He sounded broken, desperate. "I did everything I could to get you to leave. Your parents, the security they have on that farm … you'd have been safe there. But you wouldn't go. I tried to protect you, Julie."

"You sold me out, you son of a bitch!"

"I tried to make it right!" he pleaded. "I tried to fix it. I tried. But you were so damn stubborn …"

Reese reached down and wrapped both arms around the big man's knee. He pulled up sharply, and the man stumbled, let go of John's waist to keep his balance. Reese spun around and threw an elbow while he was still staggered. The man bent forward, and Reese followed with an uppercut.

As the man staggered back, Reese grabbed a two-by-four and hit him in the side of the head with it.

The big guy went down in a heap.

Reese dropped the lumber and spun.

" … what else could I do, Julie?"

"You could have told me they were coming," she snarled.

The handler's voice was suddenly quiet. "They're coming, Julie."

Reese stepped into the hallway and took an instant inventory. By the stairway door, furthest from him, Kemp was aiming a gun at Julie – or possibly past her. Julie was aiming her gun back at him, but she was turning her head toward Reese.

Between Reese and the girl were two men. They were facing her, with their backs to him. Aiming their guns at her head.

Time froze. Reese had all the time in the world to see what was going to happen. And no time to stop it.

She wasn't going to have time to turn around. He wasn't going to have time to shoot them both.

And then there was a blur of brown motion, from his right to his left. High, airborne, jumping out of one doorway and into the one across the hall. And it carried the girl away with it.

Time moved. The two men together fired anyhow. Kemp fired. Reese fired. Twice.

Kemp fell. One of the men fell. The other one spun and fired at Reese, then darted into a doorway to the right.

Will Ingram said, very softly, "_Fuuuuck_!"

"What the hell did you do?" Julie asked. She sounded winded. No, squished. Reese moved down the hall toward where they'd disappeared, but carefully, slowly, watching for the wounded one to reappear.

"They were … gonna take … a head shot," Ingram panted back. "You said … that was bad."

"So you decided to throw yourself in front of it? Are you all right?"

He was catching his breath, slowly. "That fucking _hurts_."

"I know. Get off me." There was another thump.

"Owwww!"

Reese reached the open doorway and took a quick look in. Ingram was flat on his back on the floor. Julie was sitting up beside him. He looked back to the hallway. "He alright?"

"He'll live," Julie answered. "Sit up, babe. Try to breathe deep." And then, "That was very brave, Will. Do it again and I swear I'll shoot you myself."

"Thanks. I didn't think that would hurt so much."

"Kevlar's like an abstinence ring. You still get all the momentum, just none of the penetration."

Ingram tried to laugh, ended up sucking in air instead. "Fuck," he said again.

"How we doing?" Julie called to Reese.

"One wounded, and Gund," he answered. "Everyone else is accounted for."

"Nice."

"Don't underestimate Gund. Get him up and get to the staircase. We can lock you in there."

"We?"

"Tech support."

"Nice. I get flipped by my handler and you get tech support. I'm working for the wrong damn agency."

"I could have told you that, little girl."

The injured man stuck his head around a corner down the hall and fired two rounds at Reese. John ducked through the door and fired back at him, then ran across the hall and fired again from the other side. "Get him out of here." He moved toward the gunman.

"All right," Julie said, to Will. "I know it hurts like a bitch, but I need you to cowboy up. We've got to move."

The young man groaned, but evidently made his way to his feet. "Did you really just tell me to cowboy up?"

"Do you feel like you got kicked by a bull?"

"Well … yeah."

"All right, then. Come on."

Reese glanced down at the girl's handler. He was definitely dead. Reese put his own gun away and picked up the dead man's.

He heard the injured man moving at the back corner. The doorway to the far stairway jiggled. Reese grinned and moved. "Not that way," he murmured. But by the time he got there the man was gone.

"We're in the stairwell," Julie said.

"Lock it down," Reese said. He heard the mechanical locks over Julie's feed. "Tell me when you get to the ground floor and we'll let you out."

"Will do." And to Ingram, "Nice and easy. Come on."

Reese stood very still and listened. The unfinished rooms and doors and hallways made the entire floor like a darkened maze. He liked mazes. And the injured man left a blood trail. He followed it around to his right. "Finch," he said quietly, "when I give you the word, I need the construction lights on, north side, sixth floor."

There was an instant of pause. "Ready."

Reese moved around one more corner. "Now."

The lights flared on behind the gunman. He spun around toward them, with his gun up. Reese fired, and the man fell.

"Nice work, Finch."

Then there were gunshots from the far stairwell.

"Julie!" Reese shouted.

"Found Gund," the girl answered, in a breathless whisper. "Need to get off the stairwell."

"Unlocked," Finch said a second later.

"Doors are open," Reese relayed. "Where are you?"

"Four. He's below us. You clear the rest?"

"All clear."

"Good." And then, to Ingram, "Listen to me. Go up one floor, get off this staircase, find a place to hide and stay there. There's no one in the building but this guy. And he'll follow me."

"Wait, you're not …"

"Will. Go."

"No!"

"You can't run. I can."

"Head shot."

"Will. Please. You're going to get me killed. Go!"

"Damn it, Julie …"

"_Go_!"

Footsteps moved away. There was another gunshot, and then Julie's own feet moved.

"Where are you?" Reese asked.

"I'll be back on four in a minute," she answered. There was more shooting, and then the sound of a door slamming open. Reese ran onto the stairwell on six and started down. As he passed the fifth floor, the door was just closing. Evidently Ingram had finally acted on his orders. He heard the fourth floor door slam again. It had to be Gund. He was only ten steps behind him.

He bolted through the door and rolled to his right. "Finch," he said as he cleared the door, "lock the stairwell again. Let's keep him on one floor."

"Got it."

Reese stayed low and listened. He couldn't hear anyone moving. "Julie?" he said, very quietly.

"Southwest corner," she answered. "I don't know where Gund is."

"The stairwells are locked. He's stuck on this floor. We'll get him. Stay there." Reese stood up and moved, silently, keeping his gun – Kemp's gun – in front of him in both hands and his back to the wall. Cleared every doorway as he came to it. If he couldn't locate the assassin, he at least wanted to be next to the girl. Ingram was on the floor above them and locked in, so he should be safe.

He felt the cool breeze come in from the unfinished windows at the back of the building. In the midst of all this chaos and gunfire, it was still a perfectly lovely night outside. It was easy to forget. He moved toward the breeze.

Someone moved to his left. Reese pivoted and moved that way. A second noise, further away. John stopped. He was being led away from the girl. He stopped following the sound and went back toward Julie.

The space at the back of the building was completely unfinished, with none of the dividing walls installed. There were, however, two dozen upright support beams, each big enough to conceal a man. Reese stayed in the hallway and looked in, but didn't enter. "Finch," he said softly. South side, fourth floor. Be ready to light it up."

"Ready," Finch said immediately.

He moved down the hall to an open doorway roughly in the center of the space. If Gund was there and he flinched at the light, he could spot him. "Finch … now."

The room flooded with light. To the right, Reese saw a tiny motion. He raised his weapon and moved from the doorway to the shelter of the nearest beam. Took a quick look around the side. Gund fired at him, and he ducked back, the darted out to return fire. By then, of course, the assassin was gone.

He moved up to another beam.

Heard Gund move, and fired in his direction.

Moved one more beam.

He was pretty sure Gund was two beams down, one row toward the windows. He waited, peeked, then moved.

As he settled his shoulder against the next beam, Gund stepped around the adjacent beam and aimed his gun squarely at his head. Reese ducked and rolled back behind the pillar.

From behind Gund, Julie Essex shouted, "Hey!"

Gund spun and fired at her. She fired back, but it was Reese's bullet that killed him.

Time stopped again. The girl stood very still, with her arms flung out to her sides. Gund's bullet had caught her squarely in the center of her vest, over the heart. Abstinence ring, Reese thought. No penetration. But all the momentum. It knocked her backward, actually skidding her feet across the slick unfinished floor. Reese saw the open window frame. Saw where the momentum and the window and the woman were inevitably going to collide. He moved, but he knew he wasn't going to make it.

Julie Essex fell backward out the window.

Reese ran to the window opening. He hoped she'd managed to grab something, that he could haul her back in. Hoped for miracle. Hoped again hope. Against reason. But before he could look down, he heard the unmistakable crunch of a body hitting the ground.

From the window above him, he heard Will Ingram scream, "Julie! Julie!"

And then, impossibly, he heard her answer. "What?"

"Finch," he said, "work yard lights."

"Jesus Christ," Ingram shouted, "why aren't you dead?"

The girl actually clambered to her feet, and for a wild instant Reese thought that she was unhurt. Parkour before lunch …. Then the floodlights came on. He could tell immediately that her left shoulder was dislocated; it was bent at nearly a right angle to her spine. But she was up, walking …

… except she wasn't. She put weight on her left leg and it simply folded into a 'Z' shape between her knee and her ankle. She hesitated, balanced on her right leg. Looked down at the gruesome breaks. She lifted her left foot and shook her leg, and it resumed its normal shape. She took another step on it. It folded again. She stopped and simply looked at it, as if she could not comprehend what was wrong.

"Julie, sit down!" Ingram screamed over his head.

She looked up, bewildered. "What?"

"Sit down!"

"Why?"

"Because your leg's broken."

She tilted her head. "You can diagnose that from there?"

"Yeah, I can. Stop trying to walk. Sit down."

Finch came around the side of the construction trailer. "Oh, thank God," Will said. "Uncle Harold! Uncle Harold! Make her sit down. I'll be right there."

Finch hurried to the young woman and put his arm around her waist from the unbroken side. "Here, here," he said gently. He half-carried her toward the stairs at the back deck. As he lowered her down, he looked up and met Reese's eyes. There weren't any words. Reese didn't need any. He moved into a shadowy spot and kept watch.


	10. Chapter 10

Finch eased the woman down on the step. He didn't know if he should get her to lie back, and she didn't seem inclined to do so. He sat down beside her and wiggled out of his overcoat, put it around her shoulders, and then kept his arm around her back. She nestled against him sweetly. Her face was very pale, and her skin was cool and damp, but remarkably, she didn't seem to be in any pain.

He heard Reese's voice over her earwig, though she didn't know he could hear it. "Julie?"

"Uh-huh?"

"If I put the gun back in Kemp's hand and you tell the right story, he can die a hero. It's your call."

She didn't hesitate. "He's a southpaw."

"All right."

"Thank you. For everything."

"You need to get rid of the earwig. Give it to the guy with you. Ask him to dump it somewhere."

"Okay."

Julie leaned away from Finch, reached for her ear.

"Hey, Julie?" Reese continued, before she could remove it.

"Yeah?"

"An Agency op would have stuck that landing."

She started to laugh, but it turned into a gasping cough. She took out the earpiece and very gently folded it into Finch's hand. "What is this?" he asked.

"I need you to throw it away for me. When you get home."

"Who were you talking to?"

"No one."

"But I heard you …"

"I wasn't talking to anyone." She put her hand flat on the front of his jacket. "Please."

Finch put his own hand over hers. "All right."

She smiled, and then frowned. "What are you doing here?"

"You called me," he said. "You asked me to come and get Will. You told me to stay in the car until the police got here."

"No, I didn't."

Finch patted her hand again. "You did," he said firmly. "Please."

Julie blinked. "Oh." Then she sighed and settled closer to his shoulder. "You know, someday we're going to have to stop lying to him."

"I know," Finch answered. "But not today."

"No. Not today." She looked down at her other hand, where it was cradled in her lap. "I broke my nails," she said.

Finch followed her gaze. "And your fingers," he added.

"And my wrist, I think." None of it seemed to bother her at all. Her voice was wispy, and her eyes took on a vague, gauzy expression.

"And you dislocated your shoulder."

"I did?" She turned her head to look, mildly surprised. "Oh. That explains why I can see the back of it."

"Yes."

"This is really going to hurt, isn't it?"

"I'm afraid so."

Will burst out the back door of the building and ran toward them. "Julie! Oh my God, Julie, are you …" He skidded to a stop and dropped to his knees in front of her. "Oh, my God. Jules …"

He didn't seem to know if he should be her lover or her doctor. He reached up to touch her cheek gently, but his hand immediately trailed down to check the pulse on her neck. "You are really shocky," he said.

"I know," Julie answered simply. "It's lovely."

He glanced at Harold. "Can we lay her down? Elevate her feet?"

"Will," she countered, "listen." She reached across her body to take his hand in her unbroken fingers. "Listen. Right now I am in shock and it's like a big puffy white cloud of not hurting. Let's not do anything to screw that up until somebody gets here with some morphine, okay?"

He hesitated, then nodded. "Okay. Okay. Can you move your toes?"

"Some of them." She looked at Finch again. "My sister broke sixteen bones once," she said. Her voice was lighter, lilting. "She got dragged by a horse. It's the family record."

"I think you might have a good shot at it."

"I think so, too."

"Is it a competition?" Will asked.

"Everything's a competition in my family."

He slipped off her right shoe and ran his fingers along the bottom of it. Her toes crunched in reaction. "Good." He let his hand hover over her shattered left leg, but didn't touch it. Then he sat forward on his knees and looked at her broken hand. He touched her fingertips lightly. "Can you feel that?"

"Yes."

He glanced at Harold again. "No C-spine, I don't think. I don't even want to think about internal injuries." Then he frowned. "What are you doing here?"

"Ms. Essex called me. She thought you'd need a ride home."

"I told you to stay in the car," she said.

"I know, I know. But I heard the gunshots …"

"So naturally you ran towards them."

"Well … yes."

"Did somebody call an ambulance?" Will asked.

"They're on their way," Finch promised. "And the police." He'd remembered to call for help and to unlock the stairway doors. Beyond that, he had to hope he hadn't overlooked anything. It had been a hectic moment.

Julie reached her good hand out again, touched Will's shoulder. "Will, listen to me. This is important. The man I was talking to, right before you got shot. He's … he was …"

"He was at the airport," Ingram remembered.

"He was here to help me," Julie said.

"No he wasn't. You said he sold you out …"

"Will. He's dead. He has a wife with cancer and two little kids. He was here to help me."

He blinked up at her. "You want me to lie to the police?"

"Just … don't tell them what you heard. I showed up, I said I had help with me, you never saw or heard anybody else. Please."

"You want me to lie …"

"Will. _Please_."

"He almost got us both killed."

For the first time tears glittered in the woman's eyes. "I know. I'm sorry. I know."

"Don't. Don't cry." He reached up and brushed her tears away. Then he moved up and sat on the steps next to her, opposite Finch. "Can you look this way? That way? Now keep your head still and follow my finger with just your eyes."

"I didn't hit my head, Will."

"I think it's the only part she _didn't_ hit," Finch offered.

"Let's get this vest off," Will said. He reached for the straps.

Julie stopped him. "I think that's probably holding my ribs in place."

Will sighed. He touched her shoulder, but didn't try to move it. Put his hand very lightly on her broken wrist. "Oh, baby. Oh, my poor baby."

"Doesn't hurt yet," Julie offered cheerfully, by way of comfort.

"Yet." He stroked her hair – and checked for head injuries at the same time. Her eyes grew cloudy and her head rolled back a little. "Julie, stay awake," Will said sharply. "Come on, stay with me." She straightened a little and her eyes cleared. "Good girl. I'm going to stay right here with you, Jules. Don't worry about anything. I'll be right beside you, in the ambulance, at the hospital …"

"No."

"What?"

"No."

"Julie …"

She shook her head, shook away from his hand. "No. Listen to me. You're not riding in the ambulance. You're not coming to the hospital. You're not going to visit me, or call me, or send flowers, or any of that. You're going to stay with me until they get here, and then you're going to forget about me and get on with your life."

"I can't. Please don't … I love you, Julie."

"Why?"

"Why? Because you just saved my life. Because …" he stopped. "Shit. That was exactly the wrong answer, wasn't it?"

She nodded sadly. There were tears in her eyes again. "Will, please. Don't make me fight you about this. I can't. Not now."

"Then don't. Let me stay with you."

"I _can't_. Nothing's changed. It wouldn't ever be right."

"It might be …"

"It wouldn't, Will, please …"

There were tears in his eyes, too. Finch found himself blinking back his own. They were so close, the two of them, wrapped carefully in each other's arms, wrapped in his, and he could feel their hearts breaking. He cleared his throat. "Can I suggest a compromise?" he said.

They both looked at him. He could tell they'd forgotten he was there. "A what?" Will said.

"You can't …" Julie began.

"Just hear me out." Finally, finally he heard sirens in the distance. He looked at Julie. "You think this is transference, and counter-transference, and you're probably right. And the only way to tell what's real and what isn't is hindsight, correct? Time?"

She nodded.

"If Will does what you ask, if he stays away from the hospital, if he doesn't try to contact you in any way – no candy, no telegrams, no smoke signals, nothing – if he makes an honest attempt to get on with his life and forget about you …"

"I'm not going to do that, Uncle Harold."

"Listen. Just listen. If he does that, and six months from now he finds that in spite of everything, in spite of all that time that's passed, he still has feelings for you – would you agree to have dinner with him? No promises, no expectations, just dinner?"

Julie seemed confused. Her eyes began to cloud again. "Just …"

"Just dinner," Harold repeated.

"I … yes. In six months, yes."

"So, roughly Christmas, then?"

She nodded, but her head started to roll back again. Will took her face between his hands. "Julie, wake up, stay with me here. Come on. Stay with me."

She straightened, shook her head. "I fell out a window, Will."

"I know."

"I broke my leg."

"Yeah, you did."

"Where the hell do you think I'm going to go?"

He chuckled, a little. Grimly. "Dinner, then? At Christmas?"

Julie shook her head. "Boxing Day."

"Boxing Day."

"It's the day after Christmas," Finch offered. "A holiday celebrated by …" Will looked at him and he stopped talking.

"Boxing Day," Julie said again. "Aspen. We're easy to find. We rent a hotel."

"A hotel? You mean you rent a suite, or a floor?"

"A hotel," she repeated. She turned her head to look at Finch. "You know, don't you?"

"I know," he said. "I've met some of your relatives. The family resemblance is very strong."

"That's because my parents are first cousins."

"Really?"

"No. They're clones."

"Ahh."

Will said, "What are you talking about?"

The sirens were closer. "I'll explain it to him," Finch promised.

She nodded. "Thank you. You should …" she began to fade out again "… show him a picture. He needs a visual to grasp the … full horror …"

"Julie!" Will snapped. "Come on, wake up."

She rallied one more time, though it was clearly a huge struggle. She brought her good hand up and scratched it lightly through Will's scant beard. "I like this," she said dreamily.

"I know you do." He turned his head, pressed his lips against her palm.

"Mummy will not approve." She shook her head again, grew more conscious. "If you come to Aspen, for the love of God don't use your own name."

"Why?"

"If she finds out who you are … all the SEALs and Marines and … Rangers and Boy Scouts … Mounties … in the world … won't be able to get you out of her clutches."

"What are you talking about?"

Julie rolled her head to look to Finch again. "I'll take care of it," he promised.

She twisted to touch his face. "I like you, too. You remind me of Gram."

"Thank you."

She closed her eyes.

"Julie!" Will shouted. It was harder to call her back this time, and Finch could see the near-panic in the young man. "Jules, stay with me!"

She blinked her eyes open reluctantly. "Will. I'm not going to die."

"Of course you're not. You're going to be fine. Just stay with me. Please, they're almost here, just stay awake. Come on, Jules."

"Not going to die," she repeated faintly. "Gotta stick around and see how this turns out."

They could see the flashing lights now, just outside the yard. A vehicle door slammed. "I'll get them," Finch said. But Julie was leaning heavily on him, and when he tried to slide away she groaned in real pain for the first time.

"I'll go." Will stood up. "Be right back. Keep her awake." He ran to the gate and pushed it fully open. "Over here. Hurry up!"

"Julie," Finch said gently, "wake up. They're here. Wake up."

Her head slumped against his shoulder, but she rolled it back a little to look up at him. "I like you," she said again.

Finch smiled at her fondly. She was barely conscious and deep in shock, and still she was loving and sweet. "I like you, too."

"You're like Gram," she continued. "You know stuff. Will thinks … you know … everything. I think he's … right. But it's okay. You're very kind about it."

Quite clearly, she said, "I miss her." And she began to cry in earnest.

Finch blinked back his own tears again. He bent his head, though his neck screamed, and kissed forehead lightly. Then he rested his cheek against the top of her head and rocked her, very gently. She murmured, not in pain.

At the gate, he heard Will bark orders at the paramedics. Oxygen, he wanted, and IV lines, stat, and pain meds, backboard, collar, splints. One of the paramedics barked back at him, demanded to know who he thought he was.

And for the first time ever, Finch heard the boy – the young man – use his father's Voice of Power. "I'm a _Doctor_," Will pronounced, and the force in his tone brought everyone within hearing distance under his command.

Finch looked up. He'd heard Nathan use that voice, rarely, and it always had the same effect. Everyone who heard it jumped into line, immediately and without question. It was the voice of Absolutely Authority. He'd never thought Will would possess it, much less use it. But he did and he had, and the various city employees scampered to do his bidding.

"He's coming into his own, Nathan," Finch whispered. "God help us all."

The girl stirred in his arms. He shifted, longing to keep her next to him for one more moment. She was warm, sweet, and absolutely content to be there beside him. It had been a very long time since he'd felt human contact.

Then the paramedics were there and Will was back. Someone took Harold's arm, helped him up gently, moved him aside as they swarmed over the young woman. It didn't matter now that they moved her; she'd slipped out of consciousness. But that was all right, Finch thought. Merciful. She would not die. He was sure of that.

He stepped back, further out of the way, and looked at the young woman again. Her face was white, almost luminescent under the neon lights, and her eyes were closed. She looked like a marble statue, like an angel. But she would not die. She would go away and she would heal. She was strong. And on Boxing Day she would return to Will Ingram's life. Finch didn't have any doubt about any of it. His instincts, where matters of human interaction were concerned, were not strong, although he'd always been much more intuitive about other people's relationships than his own. But he was absolutely certain about this one. As unreasonably certain as he'd been the first time he saw Grace painting in the park. This was right. This was meant to be.

He watched Nathan Ingram's son move through the sudden chaos, in full charge of the situation, seizing control in the aid of his wounded lady. He was calm, competent, confident. He was everything his father had hoped he'd be.

Finch glanced upward, cocked one eyebrow. "Are you seeing this, Nathan?" He chuckled to himself. "I told you so."

* * *

The young man was staring at the river, but Harold could tell he wasn't seeing it. Everything about Will's posture told him that the boy was miserable. Finch's heart ached for him.

He sat down on the bench next to him. "How are your ribs?"

Will winced, reached around to rub his side. "Really, really sore. Did you find her?"

"Yes. Well, my assistant did, of course." He held out the paper bag he'd carried. "I brought you a breakfast sandwich."

Will looked at it, but didn't take it. Finch put it on the bench next to him.

"Where is she?"

Harold looked toward the river and did not answer.

"Uncle Harold," the boy insisted, "where's Julie?"

"She's in good hands," Harold finally said. "She'll be fine."

"You're not going to tell me."

"If you knew where she was, Will, would you stay away from her, as you promised?"

"She broke a dozen bones, Uncle Harold. I need to make sure she's okay."

"Eighteen," Finch corrected.

"What?"

"Eighteen bones. Well, sixteen bones, eighteen breaks. Her tibia and fibula were both broken in two places. Fortunately many of the other breaks are in fingers and toes. And ribs, of course." Will stared at him. "And she is under the care of the best orthopedic doctors in the world."

"But they're not …"

"Will. She's a Carson. She is receiving, quite literally, the best care the money can buy." Her parents, he did not add, had added a whole new dimension to the phrase 'helicopter parents' in their rush to help the girl. Their smallest bird had long since left the nest, but the minute she hit the ground they'd been there to catch her up in their talons and carry her to safety.

She was in more danger of familial suffocation than she was from her multiple injuries.

"And you won't tell me where."

Harold sighed. "No."

"You don't understand. You just don't get it." Will waved his hands angrily. "I love her, Uncle Harold. I know you don't believe that, I know you think it's just this transference or another stupid phase or whatever, you think I don't know what I'm talking about, you think it will just go away. But it's not true. I _love_ her. And I'm not going to let her go like this." He stood up, paced in a short line, in full rant. "I know you're really smart, I know you think you know everything, but you don't know this. You've never loved somebody and just had to let them go like this. You never …"

He stopped dead. Harold held his breath. The boy had turned at just the wrong moment. He tried to compose his expression, but the boy's words had cut straight to his heart.

And Will had seen it. "Uncle Harold?" he said, suddenly quiet, full of regret. "I … you …" He sat back down beside him. "I'm sorry."

"It's nothing, Will," Harold said, with as much warmth as he could force. He felt like he was drowning in ice water again. The boy always found a way under his guard.

"No, it's not." Will touched his shoulder. "You never told me. Who was she? He? She?"

"It doesn't matter." Harold resisted the urge to shrug away from the physical contact. He took a deep breath, tried to bury his own pain. Chose his words carefully. "But believe me, Will, I do understand. And I know that it's perhaps the hardest thing in the world."

"Then why won't you tell me …"

"If I told you, if you went to her right now, what would you say? How would you convince her that what you feel for her is really love and not transference or a phase or anything else that her experience tells her it really is?"

"I'd just … I don't know, Uncle Harold." He drew his hand back, rubbed his forehead. By old habit, he brushed his fingertips across the tiny scar at his hairline. Harold wondered if he even remembered where he'd gotten it. "I just …" He dropped his hand. "Damn it."

"This woman that I lost," Finch continued carefully, though the words felt raw in this throat, "there was never any chance that we could be reunited. The circumstances were … insurmountable. But you have a chance, Will. You just have to be patient. Do what you said you'd do. Give it until Christmas. And think about is. _Really_ think about it."

"I won't change my mind. I love her."

"Will you love her any less in December, then?"

The boy looked toward the river again. "But what if … "

"If she doesn't love you then?"

"Yeah." Will's voice was very small.

"That's the chance you take," Harold agreed, "and it's a frightening one. But if you go to her now, today, will she see you? Will she let you stay? I don't know the young lady very well, but she seemed to have a bit of a stubborn streak. So when will your odds be better, Will? Today, or on Boxing Day, when you've both had some time to think? And when you've given her the time that she asked for?"

He could tell that Will saw the logic. He just didn't like it. "But what if she meets somebody else between now and then?"

"With eighteen broken bones? I find it unlikely that she'll be particularly interested in dating for some time." Harold nodded, half to himself. "And there's that to consider, too, Will. These injuries will change her life, even after she recovers. She needs some time to deal with that."

He could see in the boy's eyes that he knew he was speaking from experience. "She loves to run," he began. And then, "I could help her …"

"If she were your patient, Will, what would you say to her? If she came to you with these critical, life-changing injuries and said that she was getting seriously involved with a brand new boyfriend, what would you tell her?"

Will sat back, chewed on his bottom lip. "I'd tell her to wait," he finally admitted, grudgingly. "I'd tell her to deal with one thing at a time. I'd tell her she was in no emotional condition to make that kind of decision." He shook his head. "I know you're right. I hate it, but I know you're right. It's just … it's so hard. If I just had some idea what she was thinking, if she felt anything at all or if she was just blowing me off …"

"She agreed to meet you, didn't she?"

"Yeah. But she could just call and say she changed her mind."

"She could," Harold agreed. "And heaven knows I'm no expert in such things. But I would think that if a woman risks her life to save yours, it's probably an indication of at least some affection."

"Or maybe it was just her job," Will answered morosely.

"As I understand it, her job ended the moment your plane touched down in New York. Everything after that was about you, and how she feels about you."

Will looked at him for a long moment. There was resignation in his eyes, finally, and pain. "It hurts, Uncle Harold."

This time Finch reached for him, put his hand gently on the young man's shoulder. "I know it does, Will. I wish I could take that away. But you have a chance, a good chance, that this could end very well. You just have to be patient."

"You know I'm not good at that."

"I know, yes."

"How do I do this, Uncle Harold? I can't stand one day. How do I get through six months?"

"You could finish your residency," Finch suggested gently.

"No."

"It was worth a try."

"How did you get through it? When you … um …" He stopped, clearly afraid that he was causing more pain.

Harold squeezed his shoulder calmly. "I started something new. And learned something new. A great many things, actually."

"You've always told me that, haven't you? That learning something new crowded the pain out." Will smiled, just a little. "I was looking. There are these Indian reservations in Minnesota … I don't know. Maybe something else." He shook his head. "A couple days ago I was furious that I couldn't leave the country, and now I can even imagine being that far from her."

Finch nodded. Whatever else, it would be nice to have Will a little closer to home for a while. "You'll find something. And then, you might take some time to find out a bit about the Carson family. Discretely, of course. From a distance." He drew out his tablet, handed it to the boy. "Seriously consider what you might be getting into."

Will looked at the picture on the screen. He glanced up at Harold. "That's a lot of people."

"You always said you didn't like being an only child."

"Yeah, but … that's a _lot_ of people."

"Yes."

The young man considered again. "It might be fun."

"It might be awful," Harold countered. "But maybe that's just me."

"You never did like crowds. Or most people."

"Your father used to say that I was born without a social gene."

"And that he had two, to make up for it," Will finished for him. "I remember." He sobered for a minute. "I wonder …"

"What he'd think of Julie Carson?" Finch finished quietly. "I think he would love anyone that you truly loved. But I also think …" he considered, nodded, "… I think he would outright adore her for herself."

Will chuckled. "The first time she told him to cowboy up about something."

"That would do it, yes."

They sat for a moment in reflective silence. Finally Will gave the tablet back and stood up. "Uncle Harold … I'm sorry. I know I can be a big pain in the ass."

"Once in a while," Harold answered gently. "But most of the time, Will, you are one of the best parts of my life." He clambered to his own feet.

"Thank you. For talking me through this, for … being the voice of reason. I don't know what I would have done … when she fell, I was so … and after Dad … if you hadn't been here."

Harold pulled the boy into a tight hug. "I hope I can always be here for you. And eventually for your young lady." He couldn't resist a small smile. "And then for your growing herd of children."

Will actually shuddered in his arms and then pulled away, smiling himself. "She's the youngest of …"

"Fourteen."

"Fourteen. I wonder if she wants that many kids. She's good with babies." He sighed. "That's probably one of those things we should discuss, isn't it?"

"Oh, yes," Finch confirmed warmly. "Very definitely."

Will rubbed the scar on his forehead again. "Fourteen. Yeesh." He pulled his hand away. "You know something weird, Uncle Harold? This little scar I have up here, I only ever touch it when I'm with you. I don't even remember how I got it."

"Every time you touch it, do you have a sudden craving for ice cream?"

"How did you know that?"

Harold chuckled. "Forget breakfast. Come with me."

"Where?"

"To the ice cream shop. And I'll tell you how they go together."

Will frowned at him, perplexed. "It's ten o'clock in the morning."

"So?"

"So … ice cream for breakfast?"

"Nothing wrong with that, on rare occasions. I sometimes eat ice cream in the winter, too." Harold let the memory warm him for a moment. "Good things can happen when you break arbitrary rules."

After a long moment, Will nodded. "You know, Uncle Harold, somehow in my head you're very conservative, very straight-laced. I think it might be the suits. But really, when it comes down to it, you're really kind of a wild man, aren't you?"

Harold considered. "I'm flexible in my thinking. Is that a problem?"

"No. No." Will nodded to himself. "Just … something I need to remember before I turn you lose with my future herd of children."

"That's probably wise," Harold agreed. "I am already planning to spoil them outrageously. There will be giant Pixie Sticks. And puppies. And possibly ponies."

Will laughed warily. "Terrific."

They turned and walked together toward the nearest source of dairy confections.

Behind them, a short, non-descript man in an unmemorable suit followed casually. Finch saw him, but only because he was looking for him. Will Ingram didn't notice him at all.

Beyond him, somewhere invisible, a much taller and more memorable man, also in a suit, watched _him_. That arrangement was only temporary, until they were satisfied that the short man and his co-workers were adequate to the task they were being well-paid for.

Finch nodded to himself in satisfaction. He was sure Julie Carson would approve.

The End


End file.
